


Will Always Find Each Other

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Even Then (You'll Still Be Mine) [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief self-harm (of a kind), Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Polyamory of a sort (see notes), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Very very mild suicidal ideation, drunk sex (consensual)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: After rescuing Geralt from years of imprisonment and abuse, Jaskier and Yennefer have an idea of how to finally repair some of the damage that was done to him. However, the road to recovery is a winding one, and none of them are the people they were before.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Even Then (You'll Still Be Mine) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648981
Comments: 227
Kudos: 780





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who've been waiting since Part II was posted, thank you for your patience! Quarantine has been really weird and not as good for my productivity as I hoped, so thank you for bearing with me. I'm excited to share the conclusion of this series!
> 
> I’ve had some questions about the polyamory tags and Yennefer’s place in this fic, so if knowing that in advance is important to you, read on. In this fic Geralt has a previously established romantic relationship with both Jaskier and Yennefer. There’s no explicit het sex in this fic, and the focus of the story is definitely on Geralt/Jaskier. However, Yennefer is still important to Geralt. In modern terms, they’re in a poly vee triad; Jaskier and Yen are both involved with Geralt and not with each other (though obviously they are friends). The Yennefer/Geralt relationship is mostly touched on in the Geralt POV sections in Chapters 1 and 2, so if that's something you want to avoid, you could skip those.

“This spell won’t be a cure-all,” Yennefer said as she finished chalking a design onto the floor of her workshop that Jaskier was fairly certain didn’t appear in any of the books that were currently laying open on the floor around her. “Breaking the curse won’t immediately reverse all its effects. We’re only releasing your senses from where they’ve been confined.”

“Oh, is that all?” Geralt asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head tilted slightly, apparently trying to guess what she was drawing from the sound.

Jaskier, from his place on the floor opposite Geralt, couldn’t have explained the geometric pattern that was taking shape even if Geralt had asked. Instead, he tapped his fingers against his thigh in a nervous rhythm until the silence stretched unbearably. He asked Yennefer, “At some point, you are going to explain what Geralt’s senses have to do with his memories of the two of us, yes?”

“Yes.” She drew another curving line of chalk.

“That point should be before you start casting any spells,” Geralt said firmly. 

Yennefer sighed, but started to talk as she drew. “The sorcerer needed a solid, unshakable point in your mind to hold the senses captive. It had to be something strong enough that it wouldn’t break if he used it to concentrate a large amount of chaos.”

“I am but a simple bard,” Jaskier said plaintively. “Do you have some sort of metaphor you could--”

“Imagine that everything that makes Geralt who he is--memories, experiences, personality--is a forest.” Yennefer sat back on her heels and glared at him. “Can you picture that?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, with barely a twitch of his lips that wasn’t a smug smile. 

“The forest grows and changes, but some parts are older or more established than others.”

“Right.” Jaskier nodded sagely. He stole a glance at Geralt, who also appeared to be listening with a frown of concentration 

“Now imagine that Geralt’s senses are birds,” Yennefer continued. “They can range far and wide, and bring back information.”

“Makes sense,” Jaskier said.

“Does it?” Geralt asked, with a tilt of his head towards Jaskier that managed to be somehow sardonic.

“Now, what this sorcerer has done is find one of the largest, sturdiest trees in the forest,” Yennefer continued. “Well, perhaps it’s two trees twined together, but in any case, it’s one of the most prominent landmarks in view.”

“And that’s… us?” Jaskier ventured.

“Geralt’s relationships with us,” Yennefer said. “Memories, feelings, sensations, everything. So now the mage has a sturdy base. He captures every bird in the entire forest and tethers them to this tree. The birds can’t range as far as they used to. They get tangled up in the tethers, confused and twisted around, bumping into each other and fouling their wings. Some of them can’t fly at all.” Yennefer leaned down and added a few more lines to her design.

After a moment, Geralt asked, “What happens to the tree?”

Yennefer finished the line she was drawing, and traced over it again as she answered. “Between all the tethers and the flocking birds, the tree is cut off from the rest of the forest, as much as if it had never existed to begin with. Eventually, a tree that’s cut off that way will wither and die from neglect, but it can take a long time.”

“So even if we untether all the birds, the tree might be dead,” Jaskier said slowly.

“It might. Or sickened, in need of some nurturing.” Yennefer sat up again, dropped the piece of chalk into a bag at her side, and brushed off her hands. “Or it might be fine.”

“We are known for being stubborn,” Jaskier said. 

“There is that.” Yennefer’s indulgent smile made Jaskier feel a little better. “Any questions?”

“Are you certain this will fix the problem and not exacerbate it?” Geralt asked. “You won’t end up destroying all my senses?”

“No.” Yennefer sounded offended. “I’ve done a similar spell before. Though in that case, the girl was mad to begin with....”

“Confidence-inspiring,” Geralt said darkly. 

_”Yen,”_ Jaskier hissed.

“I happen to like your mind, Geralt. I have no intention of putting it at risk. If you’d rather we wait--”

“No,” Geralt said firmly. “Let’s have it over with.”

“In that case, make yourselves comfortable. You both remember what you’re supposed to do?”

“Yes, mother,” Jaskier said. Yennefer barely bothered to roll her eyes. 

Jaskier folded his legs in imitation of Geralt who, he thought rather resentfully, looked perfectly comfortable sitting on the floor despite his advanced age. Jaskier’s knees were already protesting the unfamiliar position and the unforgiving stone floor. Yennefer gathered a few items at her work table, then came to settle herself between Geralt and Jaskier on the outside of the design she’d drawn.

“Before we begin, Geralt, a word of warning,” Yennefer said. “Your mind has had years to adapt to this curse. When I unravel this thing, it won’t feel good. Something like breaking a bone to reset it.”

“That’s no hardship,” Geralt said dismissively. He couldn’t see the incredulous stare that provoked in Jaskier, and Jaskier realized grudgingly that this wasn’t the time to get into a discussion with Geralt of what did and did not constitute a serious injury worth some coddling.

“Perhaps,” Yennefer said doubtfully. “In this case, all your senses and all your memories of us are the bones.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s encyclopedic knowledge of Geralt’s various noises had faded a bit over the years, but he knew trepidation when we heard it. “Geralt, if you don’t want to do this--”

“I want to,” Geralt interrupted. “Even if it hurts.” 

_”So I’m right?” Jaskier asked as soon as Geralt had headed back to his room. “This will work?”_

_“Yes.” Yennefer had tied her hair up into a messy knot--always a sign that she was focused on her work--and was bustling around the room, pulling books and bits of parchment from stacks. “Or it should. But it’ll require some preparation.”_

_“Like what?” Jaskier came to stand beside her as she sorted through a pile of books on an armchair. “Blood? Pledge of firstborn child? Anything you need.”_

_“You shouldn’t promise ‘anything,’ Jaskier,” she said absently. “We’re trying to make a curse, not start another. For this to work, we’ll both need to use our own memories of Geralt.” She turned to give him an assessing look. “You need to have some in mind before we can try the spell.”_

_“What kind of memories?” Jaskier asked. If they had to be memories held in common with Geralt, at least right now, the options would be very limited, and not particularly pleasant._

_“Your own, as long as they involve Geralt. They needn’t even be happy ones,” Yennefer said. “Anything that’s particularly tied to sensation will do nicely. The more vivid the better.”_

_“When you say sensation,” Jaskier began, feeling his cheeks heat. The memories that rose immediately to mind were certainly vivid._

_“Yes, that too. Whatever might stir a sympathetic vibration in him. Make sure they’re strong. This isn’t going to be easy.”_

With a gesture, Yennefer lit the candles placed at intersections of her chalk drawing. They all flickered merrily, seeming disproportionately bright in the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Jaskier’s eyes flicked to Geralt’s medallion, vibrating almost imperceptibly against his chest.

Yennefer spoke a few words in Elder and spread her hands out to the sides. A wind rustled the papers in the room and stirred her hair. Jaskier kept watching Geralt, who sat with his hands braced on his knees, as if poised to jump up and flee. His white, blank eyes were open wide, but he had a wrinkle in his brow that suggested he might be in pain already.

Yennefer turned her palms upwards, and Jaskier obeyed the signal to grasp her hand. He closed his eyes against the chaos of the room, and concentrated on the memories he’d collected. 

The monotonous clop clop clop of Roach’s hooves against the dusty road, creating a little symphony in time with the creak of leather and the chirping of birds, and Geralt lulled with it so his hand was loose on the reins, his eyes almost closed, and Jaskier could look his fill. The sparkling walls of the grotto they’d stopped at in Verden, where the air had steamed above the hot spring water, and Geralt had let Jaskier kiss him and kiss him. The smell of sweat and grime when they’d gone too long between inns, but it felt almost good, knowing that a warm bath and a hot meal awaited them just up the road. The weight of Geralt’s arms around him, a shield against the cold winter night. The frantic thudding of his heart in his chest as he ran beside Geralt from an angry werewolf. The swipe of a tongue at the tip of his cock, and Geralt looking up at him with an anticipatory gleam in his eye. The sound of Geralt sharpening his swords, a rasping descant above the crackle of a fire. The flick of his fingers against the strings of his lute with Geralt’s eyes heavy on him as he watched from the bed. The soft huff of Geralt’s reluctant laughter at a hopelessly stupid joke. The painful throb of his feet at the end of his first day walking beside Geralt, and the cold of the stream he’d soaked them in. 

“It’s working,” Yennefer called. “Keep going.” The wind in the room had risen, tearing at the candle flames and whipping her hair around her face. Geralt was leaning back now, his face turned up and his fingers digging into his knees.

The slide of Geralt’s skin against his, their bodies moving against each other. The smell of chamomile and verbena as Jaskier rubbed a salve into the sore muscles of Geralt’s shoulder. The tight clench in Jaskier’s chest the first time he woke up with Geralt, naked and sated, in his bed. The bright burst of flavor in each tiny mountain blueberry Geralt handed him as they walked through a late summer path. The rumble of Geralt speaking his name in the exasperated tone that meant Jaskier was definitely going to be making it up to him later. The smooth strands of Geralt’s hair sliding through his fingers. The mountain wind tugging at his hair as he watched Geralt walk away. 

Yennefer began chanting in Elder, her voice rising over the whine of the wind. She squeezed Jaskier’s hand, then reached out her other hand towards Geralt. Jaskier did the same. Geralt reached back towards them, and their hands met, completing the circle. Jaskier added his voice to the chanting, the same phrase over and over, and then Geralt joined in as well, eyes closed and frowning in concentration. 

The candles flared brightly, and then the chalk caught fire as well, burning with incandescent heat for only a moment, then crystalizing into dark ash. The howling wind died in an instant, leaving the room still and silent. 

Yennefer dropped her hands. Jaskier held onto Geralt’s another moment, but let go when Geralt pulled away. 

"Geralt?” Yennefer said quietly.

Geralt looked up and opened his eyes: a glowing amber in the warm afternoon light. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. He found he couldn’t look away from those familiar eyes he hadn’t seen in so long. 

Geralt blinked, and immediately threw up a hand to shield his face.

Jaskier leapt to his feet and hurried to untie the curtains of the room’s enormous windows and pull them closed with a bit of cursing. When the light was blocked, the room’s only light came from the handful of candles still burning on the floor. 

Geralt slowly lowered the hand over his eyes, but kept them almost entirely shut. Yennefer was leaning forward, watching him intently.

“Your eyes will probably be much more sensitive for a while," Yennfer said. “Everything else, too.”

Geralt grunted. 

“Yen, you did it!” Jaskier dropped to his knees, heedless of the hard stone, threw his arms around her, and kissed her full on the mouth. 

She just shook her head at him, though she was definitely smiling. “I said I would. Though technically it took both of us,” she said.

“Loud,” Geralt grunted.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered. He turned to see Geralt curled in on himself, hands clenched in fists atop his thighs like he was holding himself back. “Are you hurt?” Jaskier asked, his giddiness melting in the face of fear to see Geralt so obviously unwell. 

“I can see,” Geralt said gruffly. He flattened a hand against the floor and hunched over. 

“You’re in pain.” Jaskier knew the signs well enough, though the big idiot seldom came out and said so. He reached a hand towards Geralt, then stopped, remembering himself, and dropped his hand back to his side.

“I did say it would be like breaking a bone,” Yennefer said, though she did sound a bit contrite.

“You underestimated,” Geralt gritted out.

Yennefer leaned towards him, and hummed thoughtfully. “I can put you to sleep, if you--”

“No,” Geralt snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps somewhere dark and quiet to rest,” Jaskier suggested. “Your room?”

“Hmm.” Geralt rose to his feet with a lack of his usual grace, and blinked as he looked around the workshop. He’d been there many times in the past weeks of course, but Jaskier imagined actually seeing the place, cluttered with the many years’ worth of detritus of Yennefer’s magic, was a different experience. 

Before Geralt could comment on any of the strangeness, like the taxidermied unicorn, Jaskier said quickly, “I can take you.”

“Geralt, before you go.” Yennefer rose and stepped up before him. “Look at me?”

Geralt squinted at Yennefer, and then at Jaskier. His eyes held interest, but no recognition. No magical reversal. Jaskier’s heart sank into his boots.

"No miraculous return of memory, then." Yennefer’s teeth were clenched hard, and she took a moment to breathe. For all she’d counseled Jaskier to keep his expectations low, she hadn’t been able to do so herself, it seemed. "Well it was probably a bit much to ask at first."

Geralt squinted at her, but when he looked Jaskier’s way, Jaskier schooled his face into something other than an expression of crushing disappointment: something more like supportive cheer. Geralt could see, and that was enough of a victory for one day. 

“Do you want to…?” Jaskier extended his hand. 

Geralt, still with eyes mostly closed, reached out to grasp Jaskier’s hand, then drew back with a hiss of pain. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked urgently.

“Too much,” Geralt muttered. “Just lead.”

_“Bottle, blue wax seal,” Geralt grunted._

_Jaskier snatched the correct bottle from its pocket in Geralt’s bag, then hurried back to Geralt’s side. HIs face was drained of all color and his eyes were a uniform flat black, but the blood gushing from the gouge in his side was a bright, alarming red._

_“Don’t touch,” Geralt wheezed. “Here.”_

_“Where?” Jaskier looked from the wound to Geralt’s face, but found his eyes closed, his head lolling to the side._

_“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered. He gripped the bottle tightly and pressed his eyes closed, trying to think. Jaskier could bandage the wound and hope that would suffice until Geralt woke up. But Geralt would probably have suggested that plan if he thought he was likely to survive it. If Jaskier could lift Geralt onto Roach’s back, which was doubtful, he could ride for town and hope they had a healer. But considering the disgusted attitude of the alderman they’d dealt with this morning, any healer there might not be willing to treat a witcher._

_So that left the unknown elixir in Jaskier’s shaking hand. If he used it and it did something terrible, Jaskier wouldn’t be able to bear it. On the other hand, if Geralt died because Jaskier did nothing, that would be even harder to bear._

_Jaskier pried the wax seal loose with his dagger and tugged the cork out of the bottle. The smell that wafted out was strong and bitter. It didn’t smell like something one should drink. Then again, none of the witcher decoctions had a particularly pleasant scent._

_“Are you meant to drink this? Mix it into a paste? What?” He looked down at Geralt’s still form, from which no answer was forthcoming. The blood continued to seep from the wound steadily, pooling on the forest floor beneath him._

_“Right. Stop dithering,” Jaskier scolded himself. He tipped the bottle over the wound. A hiss arose, as of steam, and the potion bubbled wherever it met blood, foaming up into a pink froth. Geralt jerked and made a pained noise in his throat, but he didn’t open his eyes._

_“Shit shit shit!” Jaskier’s hands hovered over the wound uselessly. He’d guessed wrong, and now Geralt was going to fucking die, and it was all his fault. “No, he’s not! Fuck you, fucking stupid elixir!” he shouted, and turned to drag Geralt’s bag closer. There had to be something there that would help. He grabbed vial after vial, squinting at them in the failing light in the hopes that one would look promising. Too long--this was taking too long._

_When he turned back to glance at the wound, the blood had stopped bubbling up, and a rough growth of skin was forming over the worst of the gash. Jaskier stared dumbly as the scar knit itself together in a messy jumble._

_At last, Jaskier reached down to wipe away the remnants of bloody foam, and found a mostly sealed wound. “Fucking elixirs,” he said emphatically, and wiped his hands off on Geralt’s already ruined shirt._

_Geralt still lay motionless, so Jaskier burned off his nervous energy by setting up camp around him. They’d only been travelling together for a few months, but Jaskier had learned enough about Geralt’s routines to make himself useful. When he’d started a fire, layed out their bedrolls, stripped Roach of her tack and fed her, he sat down next to Geralt for the comfort of hearing him breathe._

_Geralt’s bag still yawned open, displaying its extensive collection of bottles. Jaskier peered inside, and ran his finger over one row, bottles marked with colored wax seals and sometimes runes scraped into the cork, but never proper labels._

_“What are you doing?” Geralt rasped. His eyes were open, a dark amber in the gathering twilight._

_“Snooping,” Jaskier admitted. He gestured at Geralt’s side, where the knotty scar was a vivid pink line. “Is that what that potion was meant to do? Just knit you together like a holey sock?“_

_“It worked,” Geralt said shortly. He tried to pull his shirt down over the wound, but it was a hopeless endeavor with a garment so shredded. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”_

_“That was not a foregone conclusion.” Jaskier had meant it to be a joke, but it came out a little more forcefully than he’d intended._

_“I’m fine.” Geralt smoothed a hand over the scar, then nodded to Jaskier. “Thank you.”_

_“You need to tell me what these are and what they do.” Jaskier gestured to Geralt’s open bag.  
“I don’t want to have to guess if I’m poisoning you. Next time you might not be so lucky.”_

_“All right.”_

_“And besides--” Jaskier’s words tumbled to a halt as he registered Geralt’s answer. “All right?”_

_“That’s what I said.”_

_“That was too easy.” Jaskier eyed Geralt suspiciously._

_Geralt dragged the bag into his lap and didn’t look at Jaskier when he said, “Perhaps I’ve become resigned to having you around.”_

Jaskier led the way out of the workshop, downstairs and through corridors. Geralt followed slowly, if anything more unsure of his footing than he’d been before the spell. He’d been finding his way around the place just fine for days, but with his senses restored, whatever equilibrium he’d found in his perception had been destroyed. 

Jaskier held open the door to Geralt’s room while he shuffled inside. After a moment, Jaskier stepped in after him. “Is there anything I can--”

“No.” Geralt sank onto the bed, kicked off his boots, flopped down onto his back, and flung an arm over his face to shield his eyes.

Jaskier hurried to close the windows, which had been letting in fresh spring air along with birdsong and the clamor of workmen unloading supplies for the kitchen, and drew the curtains for good measure. He lit a candle from a banked coal in the fireplace and delivered it to the table beside Geralt’s bed. Jaskier hadn’t been in this room since Geralt had returned, but he’d been the one to prepare it before he left for Lord Iwen’s. And of course, he’d spent plenty of time here before Geralt had gone away. He probably knew the contents of the room better than Geralt did, at least until his memories returned. “There’s a dried herb mixture here. Mostly mint.” Jaskier opened the drawer and lifted out the small pot. “You used to burn it as a kind of palate cleanser if smells were too strong.”

Geralt nodded vaguely. He already seemed half asleep, or perhaps just incoherent. 

“Right. I’ll bring some water. Is there anything else you need?”

The shake of Geralt’s head was almost imperceptible. Jaskier resisted the urge to touch him--a comforting hand on his shoulder or a squeeze of his hand--and hurried out, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

On his way to the kitchens, Yennefer stopped him. “How is he?”

“Not good, but I’ve seen him worse,” Jaskier reported. “He wasn’t loudly protesting that he’s fine, which I take to mean his pain is manageable.”

“One of us should stay with him.” Yennefer looked off in the direction of Geralt’s room. “If his senses are still recovering, it might be harder for him to take care of himself at first. He doesn’t like to ask for things.”

“Oh, and you’re such an expert at that,” Jaskier said with a roll of his eyes.

“Lucky I have your shining example to try to live up to.” She raised her pitch and waved a hand in imitation of Jaskier’s habitual gestures. “Yen, the chapel needs better acoustics, Yen you have to hire a cook that knows how to make Redanian barley cakes, Yen you’ve got to help me rescue Geralt.” 

“Uncanny,” Jaskier said, deadpan. “Truly, I almost thought you were me.”

“I know.” Yennefer’s mouth curved up in the barest hint of a smile. “I’ll stay with him first. You should go… do something. You’ve been haunting this place like a wraith for too long now. How will he be inspired to remember you if you’re a mopey sad sack instead of the sexy, confident bard he left behind?”

“Thanks,” Jaskier said dryly, though his chest felt suddenly tight.

“I mean it.” She settled a hand on his arm and squeezed. “You look a mess. Take a break, at least for tonight.”

When Jaskier considered it, there was something he’d been meaning to do. “Alright. I’ll come check on you later. Don’t think you can keep all the nursemaid duties for yourself.”

“Ugh, leave already.” With an extravagant roll of her eyes, she started down the corridor towards Geralt’s room.  
\--

The scratch of sheets against Geralt’s skin felt like needles. He kicked them off and away, but then the chill draft seeping under the door made him shiver. Turning onto his side, he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. He’d had to discard his clothes hours ago, as their constant friction against his skin had been unbearable. 

At least touch he could control. And he could keep his eyes closed against the light, color, and movement that were suddenly too much. Smells and sounds, however, still reached him from all over. Though the windows were shut, he could hear every hoofbeat on the cobblestone courtyard, every shout from the guardsmen who had moved their drills outside the compound walls at Yennefer’s request. He could smell the dung heap behind the barn and everything made in the kitchen, and his stomach had rebelled at the combination. 

He’d spent most of the last few days in bed with a pillow pressed over his head,moving as little as possible. Yennefer and Jaskier had taken it in turns to sit with him, until at last he’d snapped at Yennefer that her heartbeat and her breathing were intolerable. After that, they’d come in only briefly to check on him. 

Now, with the heat of the day dissipating and the sounds of the household fading one by one, he could relax to a point. Perhaps today had not been as painful as the day before. If he concentrated, he could pick out the sound of the candle flickering on the table, and listen only to that. The sound didn’t taste or look like anything. It was only itself, and he could hear it plainly. 

So plainly, in fact, that he failed to register the sound of footsteps in the hallways until they stopped outside his door. There was a pause, and some rustling. Jaskier had taken to removing his boots before entering, as his stocking feet made less noise against the wooden floor. The door handle clicked, and Jaskier slipped into the room, accompanied by the warm smell of broth. Geralt cracked open his eyes enough to see that Jaskier was indeed carrying a tray with a bowl, and his senses weren’t registering what wasn’t there. 

“May I come in?” Jaskier asked quietly. 

Geralt grunted, unwilling to make any louder reply. 

Jaskier eased the door shut, then padded over to the bed with his tray. He wore washed-out grey-ish clothing, as he had every time he’d visited in the past few days, not the garish colors he’d worn when Geralt had first seen him, in the workshop after the spell had returned his sight. That outfit had made him squint at its brightness. 

Geralt opened his eyes further. Sunlight no longer seeped in around the curtains. The only light came from the flickering candle, which threw dancing shadows against the walls. The brightest thing in the room was Jaskier’s pale face, a face which didn’t look any more familiar to him than it had before. 

Jaskier set the tray carefully on the table. “Feeling hungry at all?” he asked quietly, so quietly another human might not have heard it.

Geralt could smell the broth, and some bread besides. He concentrated on those scents only, and found his stomach rumbling in response. 

“Guess that’s a yes,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt dragged himself into a sitting position. The wooden headboard scraped at his bare skin, but the sensation wasn’t so terrible it couldn’t be ignored.

Jaskier settled into the chair next to the bed, looked at Geralt, then quickly back at the tray of food, and said, “Do you perhaps want a sheet? Or some clothes?”

Geralt looked down at his naked body. Seeing it was still a shock--he was leaner, and paler, and some of the new scars he’d felt didn’t look like he thought they would. But it was his own, for all that, something he could see and feel. And he could determine who else was allowed to see and feel. 

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Geralt pointed out.

“Yes.” Jaskier’s face did something complex, like a wince and a smile. 

He was like that, his face endlessly expressive, Geralt had noticed. It made him wonder what expressions he’d missed when he hadn’t been able to see. 

“You’re not cold?” Jaskier asked. 

“Do I look cold?” Geralt asked, just to see Jaskier’s lips part as he groped for a reply. But then Geralt reached down and pulled the sheet up to his waist. The weight of it didn’t seem grotesquely heavy now. 

“There’s broth, and a roll, and a few pears,” said quickly. “I saved you the ones that were properly ripe. Not mushy, not too hard. ” 

“Hmm.” Geralt eyed the fruit dubiously. The gritty texture of the skin would feel like sandpaper on his tongue. But there were other things to eat, at least.

Jaskier had the bowl of broth in his hands and was frowning at it. 

“You planning to spoon feed me?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No. No!” Jaskier pushed the bowl at him, broth sloshing dangerously close to the rim. 

Gleralt took the bowl and the proffered spoon. 

“Just ready to take it away if it didn’t smell... appealing,” Jaskier said. 

That was fair enough. Food smells had been nothing but a torment so far. Geralt definitely remembered some vomiting yesterday, or perhaps the day before. Tonight, though, the broth smelled warm and savory, like something he could eat. He tipped a spoonful into his mouth and closed his eyes as the rich flavor of it bloomed over his tongue. Salty and meaty, smooth and delicious. He may have made a noise of some kind. 

“Good?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes.” Geralt spooned more broth into his mouth and managed not to make any other involuntary sounds.

“You look better,” Jaskier said after Geralt had drained the bowl. “Less wretched, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said dryly. 

“You had me worried there for a bit. I’ve never seen you ill, not like that, at least.” Jaskier’s face again did something like a wince-smile, and he shook his head briefly. “So, is it getting more manageable? The…” Jaskier waved a hand around his head. 

“Yes.” The throbbing in Geralt’s head had subsided enough that it wasn’t the only thing he noticed anymore.

“Glad to hear it.” Jaskier picked up a pear from the tray, produced a knife, and began to peel the skin in neat strips. 

Geralt found that he didn’t mind that Jaskier was holding a blade while he himself was unarmed. The man had given Geralt his own blade when Geralt had just tried to kill him, after all. And of course, now that his senses had been restored, Geralt was indisputably capable of defending himself, weapon or no. And the pear did smell sweet and juicy.

“If the spell had only made things worse for you…” Jaskier shook his head. 

“Not worse,” Geralt agreed. That made a tense wrinkle appear on Jaskier’s forehead. “And getting better,” he added.

“But still not entirely comfortable,” Jaskier said.

“No.” Geralt wasn’t certain what “entirely comfortable” would even mean in this place, but the worried lines were only carving themselves deeper into Jaskier’s face, so he didn’t elaborate. 

“Well, then I won’t sit here breathing at you.” Jaskier brushed off his hands and stood. “If you need anything… Well, you know where to find me.” Jaskier padded back out of the room and eased the door closed behind him. 

Geralt felt an unexpected pang of disappointment at the bard’s departure. With someone making an effort not to overwhelm his senses, a bit of company had been something like pleasant.

On the plate, Jaskier had left behind a pear, peeled and diced neatly the way Geralt did for himself, but had never seen anyone else do. Perhaps he could eat a bit more. 

_  
Geralt had his eyes nearly closed against the bright glare of the sun, open only enough to see Eskel standing across from him, frowning in concentration. Their first excursion outside Kaer Morhen since the Trials had meant leaving behind the overwhelming stimulation of the sounds, smells, and sights of dozens of men and boys working and training in close proximity. But out here with the rest of their year-mates on a wind-swept hill, Geralt wasn’t finding his newly-heightened senses any easier to sort out._

_“Can you hear it yet?” Eskel asked._

_“No.”_

_The instructor had set them to trying to pick out their partner’s heartbeat, but currently Geralt couldn’t imagine how he could do that over the thunderous rattle of his own heart and breathing._

_“How do I tell which heartbeat is yours?” Eskel asked._

_“You can hear more than one?”_

_Eskel nodded. His eyes were closed, and he seemed not to be flinching at every word spoken by the others. Unfairly composed, the bastard._

_Geralt closed his eyes and concentrated. The thud-thud-thud of his heart resonated in his skull like a struck bell. “I can only hear my own. It drowns out everything else.”_

_“Then you’ll have to learn to ignore it.”_

_“Helpful,” Geralt muttered. Ignoring a sound coming from inside him seemed impossible. Even Eskel’s voice had sounded oddly distant and muffled. He opened his eyes and sighed, dragging a hand through hair tangled by the wind._

_“Giving up?” Eskel had his eyes open, too, regarding Geralt with altogether too much smugness._

_“No,” Geralt snarled. He clenched his fists at his sides and focused on Eskel, who looked back at him with an insolent grin._

_Geralt listened to the sound of his heart, memorizing the rhythm and pitch of it. The sound of his own breathing faded into the background, a slow and steady cycle of inhale, exhale. He learned the sound of that as well. For a time, Geralt concentrated only on those, not trying to pick out any other sound or smell around him. Just the in-out whoosh of his breath and the rhythm of his heart._

_When he had narrowed his world to the sound of his breathing and his heartbeat, he closed his eyes. In the moments of silence between each heartbeat, in that one suspended instant of holding his breath before releasing it, Geralt began to hear beyond himself. He heard the high-pitched whistle of a mountain lark’s song. He heard the far distant clank and scrape of swords--boys practicing in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, more than a mile away. And he heard another heartbeat. His eyes snapped open._

_Eskel still stood watching him, but now Geralt could track the sound back to its source. He concentrated on that steady, relentless rhythm until it was all he could hear. Slowly, he took a step forward, still watching Eskel. He took another step, and another, until he could press his palm to Eskel’s chest and feel his heart beat in time with the sound. It certainly was this heart he was hearing, and no other._

_Then one of the other boys shouted, “I did it!”_

_Eskel and Geralt both flinched away from the intolerable noise, and the sounds Geralt had managed to ignore flooded in again, drowning out Eskel’s heartbeat._

_But Geralt was smiling, and Eskel was grinning back at him. “It was working,” Geralt said. “For a moment, it worked.”_

_“So you can do this, you’re just too lazy to do it without bitching and moaning?” Eskel crossed his arms over his chest._

_“I haven’t seen you do it yet. If it’s so easy, show me.”_

Geralt slept, or thought he did. The early morning light seeped through the curtains he’d opened and warmed his skin. He slowly opened his eyes, but the brightness wasn’t nearly the hardship it had been. When he glanced around the room, he saw the sorceress curled up in an overstuffed, threadbare chair by the fireplace, eyes closed. The fact that she’d entered the room without his noticing made him only slightly uneasy. His senses weren’t yet functioning as efficiently as they could be, and he’d been working on ignoring the unnecessary for days now. 

He managed to push himself upright and gather a sheet around himself before he heard the sorceress stir.

“So you’ve regathered your wits.” Yennefer regarded him from her perch on the chair. “Good. I’m very confident in my abilities, but it seems there are always exceptions when it comes to you.”

“I never lost my wits,” Geralt grumbled.

“Have any memories come back?”

“No.” Geralt had tried, had sorted through his memories of the past few decades as a way to distract himself from the intense sensory input of the past few days. He’d found blank places, but nothing to fill them. And some blank places, he knew, were a mercy. 

“Damn. I hate waiting.” Yennefer unfolded herself from the chair and stretched languidly. The fabric of her gown hugged her form in quite a flattering way. 

Geralt dragged his eyes away before she caught him looking. 

“Scholars are divided on whether or not describing mutual memories can help a person remembering something they’ve forgotten.” She stayed on her side of the room, tracing her fingers over the carvings above the fireplace, but with her head angled towards him, listening. “The concern is that whatever I tell you might overwrite your own memories of the event. And there are many events that you and I saw very differently.”

“There’s only one real version of any event.”

“Is that so, Butcher of Blaviken?” Yennefer asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Geralt frowned, but said nothing. No one had called him that in quite a while, though he couldn’t remember when they’d stopped. 

“It might be useful to examine an event I remember and you don’t. Jaskier already told you how you and I met.”

“No he didn’t,” Geralt objected. And he had wondered how he’d fallen in with these people. It made no kind of sense that he’d be living with a sorceress. Witchers didn’t have entanglements like that. 

“You wished for a djinn to silence him.”

“I…” Geralt trailed off as he thought over what little Jaskier had told him, which he’d done with a rather lighthearted air. “That’s not how he explained it.”

“Well, he loves you,” she said simply. “And he’s forgiven you. For that, at least.”

Geralt ignored the statement that was clearly designed to arouse his curiosity, and asked instead, “What did the djinn have to do with you?”

“You came to me seeking a cure for Jaskier,” she said. “In fact, you offered to pay me, ‘whatever the price,’ for the service. Which struck me at the time as quite foolish.”

“I didn’t say that.” Geralt didn’t remember the incident, but he felt certain he wouldn’t have said something so stupid.

“Oh, you did. It was extremely touching.”

“You could tell me anything, and I’d have no way to refute you.”

“True.” She gave him an assessing look. “Did you know sorcerers can share memories?”

“What does that mean?” Geralt asked.

“We can read minds, in some cases, but we can also show what we’ve read, or our own memories, to others,” she said carefully. Geralt did not like the sound of that. “That’s how I trained Jaskier to rescue you, in fact. I gave him an intimate experience of the thoughts and feelings of some of the vilest people I’ve ever encountered. He wasn’t really getting it on his own.”

“I imagine you can create false memories as well,” Geralt said. He’d already considered the possibility that some of his memories might have been tampered with besides the ones that were missing, but if they were, he had no way of confirming it. 

“It’s certainly possible for magic to influence thoughts or emotions, even in such a way that the victim doesn’t know they’re being manipulated. I know that better than most.” A small smile brightened her face. “But of course, witchers have no emotions to manipulate.”

“Hmm.” He settled his arms over his chest and leaned back against the headboard. 

“That was a joke, you ass. But I wouldn’t use magic to influence your emotions. We both swore we wouldn’t do that to each other.”

Geralt looked at her sharply, but she shook her head and went on.

“I’m offering to show you a memory,” Yennefer said. “Just one. Something simple, to see if it shakes anything loose for you.”

“I thought you said scholars discourage contaminating a person’s memories.”

“I’m not one to follow the recommendations of authority,” she said loftily. “And neither are you.”

Geralt considered what it might be like to have back a missing piece of his mind, to fill one of the gaps that littered his memory like chinks in rusty armor. The sorceress had managed to restore his senses without scrambling his brain. This should be much simpler. And if she meant to manipulate or harm him, she hardly lacked opportunities. “What memory? The djinn?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “No, not the djinn. Something simple. The last time I saw you, perhaps. Before you were taken.”

“All right,” he said, after a moment’s thought. It would be useful to know about who this woman was to him. Even if the memory she offered was a false one, it would tell Geralt more about what she wanted him to think. 

“May I come closer?” The words sounded stilted, as if Yennefer had been coached on them.

“Yes.”

“It’s easier if I can touch you,” she added.

“Fine.” He pulled himself up straighter and braced himself for the pressure-pain sensation of touch that he’d managed to mostly avoid while he was getting his senses back under control.

Yennefer strode towards him and settled onto the edge of the bed. Up close, her eyes were a striking deep violet color. When she reached out a hand to his face, her hair swung forward in a dark curtain, bringing with it the distinct smell of lilac and gooseberries: the floral sweet scent cut through with a tartness that was almost sour. It was a scent he knew.

“Yen.” Geralt’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. It didn’t hurt to touch her. Her skin was warm, soft. As smooth as it had been a decade before--as unchanging as her face. And her scent. It had reached him first, before he ever saw her across the room of naked revelers. He used to press his face into her pillow after she’d gone, clinging to that scent until it was only a memory. And the smell had haunted him in the years they were apart, waiting for her to forgive him. He would stay at Kaer Morhen longer into the spring to avoid the first bloom of lilacs, and in high summer he’d skirted rock-strewn mountains where gooseberries grew. 

But since then, he’d lounged in bed, sated and sleepy, watching Yennefer apply her makeup and scents from the fleet of bottles and vials on the table in her room. Sometimes he could urge her back to bed so he could press his face into her neck and revel in that scent against her warm skin. He had only to go to her to have that scent with him again, because she welcomed him, wanted him.

“Yen.” His voice came out as barely a whisper. He couldn’t quite draw breath. 

“What’s wrong?”

He remembered shouting at her, and her shouting back. Remembered her back against his as they fought together, united. Remembered her moving atop him, naked skin limned in the light of a fire.

“Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice sounded distant, muffled. “Geralt!”

She straightened the collar of a fussy court outfit she’d bullied him into for an audience with the king. She screamed in Elder, holding her hands out to shield them both from the cascade of falling boulders. She dropped the silk robe from her shoulders and stepped into the steaming bath, eyes never leaving his. She snatched the last glass of White Gull from Lamber’s hand and downed it with impressive speed as the others laughed. She combed her fingers through Geralt’s hair as he sat with his head in her lap, watching the rain. She traced a hand down his chest with a feather-light touch as he shuddered on the bed, trying not to climax. She wrapped her arms around him and settled her head on his shoulder, and he turned his head to breathe in the smell of her hair.

“Yen.” He raised his eyes to look at her--her eyes wide with concern, her hand raised between them, poised to touch. “It’s you.” He surged forward, grabbed her face in his hands, and kissed her.  
\--

Jaskier cheerfully accepted the cup of strong tea the cook handed him as she gathered food for a breakfast tray. He wasn’t an early morning creature by nature, but he’d had years of travelling with Geralt, who inevitably rose at dawn and often began breaking down camp in the most obnoxiously loud way possible with no regard for Jaskier’s beauty sleep. Jaskier had learned to rise with the sun out of self defense. And of course Yennefer, being an inveterate night owl, wasn’t a good candidate for the morning Geralt-watching shift. She was capable of rising early, but the effort left her temper so sharp that one often wished she hadn’t bothered.

Jaskier drained his cup and collected the tray the cook handed to him, which included tea, some hot biscuits with butter, a generous pile of sausages, a bowl of pottage with aromatic spring leeks, a small, crisply fried fish, and a charcoal sketch of Roach on a scrap of parchment, contributed by Essa, who was waging a campaign to be allowed to help with nursemaid duties. A respectable spread, and almost enough to satisfy a witcher’s normal appetite. 

The cook had clearly taken Jaskier’s mournful tales of Geralt’s continued skinniness personally, which suited Jaskier just fine. Now that Geralt was eating again, Jaskier could resume his project of feeding him back up to a proper weight. Not that he expected Geralt to stay in bed much longer. He’d been plenty lucid the day before, and feeling well enough to tease Jaskier. That inevitably meant he’d be up and pushing himself too hard within a day or two. 

Jaskier carried the tray through the halls, minding his step so as not to slosh the tea out of its cup. Once Geralt was up and about, he was sure to see things that would prompt him to remember. This whole place was crawling with memories. And while Jaskier waited for those memories to resurface, he wouldn’t sit about fretting. Perhaps he’d take a few days to ride to Gulet and watch the musical competition at the fête there. He was in no shape to compete himself, but watching mediocre bards win might generate enough spite to get him playing again. 

Outside Geralt’s room, Jaskier toed off his boots, which he’d gotten quite adept at by now, and balanced the tray on one hand as he turned the door handle and pushed open the heavy door with his hip. The fire burned cheerily, passably illuminating the room even with the curtains drawn. Geralt was sitting up in bed, bare-chested as usual, and with a sheet pulled up to his waist this time. But he wasn’t alone. 

Geralt had his arm wrapped around Yennefer, and their heads angled together, kissing.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed. 

Geralt pulled back, and Yennefer turned to look at him, a little wide-eyed. 

“You remember?” Jaskier asked breathlessly. When Geralt gave him an unreadable look, Jaskier glanced at Yennefer. Yen gave him a slight nod. Jaskier whooped. “You remember!”

He charged toward them, and saw Geralt jerk back from him, just fractionally. He stopped in mid-stride, excitement trickling away as Geralt looked at Yennefer, still holding her close. 

Yennefer turned to face Jaskier, still held in the circle of Geralt’s arm. “Not everything,” she said quietly.

“Oh,” Jaskier said. He looked at Geralt’s hand where it spanned Yennefer’s waist, and he nodded. “You remember her. You don't…”

“No. I don't...” Geralt trailed off, looking at Yennefer again.

“Right,” said Jaskier. “That's... That's fine. That's good, you remembered something. Progress.” He set down the tray on the table in the corner. He’d spilled the cup of tea after all. He absently wiped up some of the mess with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Jaskier, it’s a good thing,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier turned to give her a smile. There was a genuine seed of happiness at the root of it, if it couldn’t have been called entirely sincere. “I know it is. I do know that. I’m…” There was a tightness in his throat that threatened to choke him. “I interrupted,” he went on quickly. “I'll let you two…” Jaskier turned and walked out, slow as if in a daze, and closed the door behind him.

_Jaskier raised a finger to get the bar maid’s attention. She lifted her chin in acknowledgement as she bustled to the bar. He settled back against the wall in his little corner table and turned his attention to the duo standing at the far end of the tavern, belting out a hearty rendition of “The Busty Novigrodian Widow” while one of them played a fiddle._

_The barmaid hurried by, setting a fresh tankard of ale on Jaskier's table and offering a friendly smile, but none of the starstruck adoration he encountered in smaller towns. Jaskier was a common enough sight in Vengerberg that when he’d arrived tonight, he’d faced only a handful of questions regarding whether he planned to compete in the evening’s bawdy song contest. When he had demurred, no one hounded him to change his mind._

_Even if he had brought his lute, it wouldn’t have been fair to compete--a master bard among locals who were more enthusiastic than skilled. And in any case, Jaskier hadn’t had the heart to sing in quite a while._

_But last night, Geralt had asked him for music. Such a simple request, and Jaskier had found it entirely paralyzing. Though today, Geralt’s senses had been restored, and his memories were certain to return soon. Yen was right. Jaskier needed to shake off the melancholy that had dogged him the past few weeks and try to be, at least in part, the Jaskier that Geralt would soon remember._

_He tapped his foot along to the singing, with its rhythm only occasionally faltering. This was apparently not the first rendition of the song to be performed tonight, but at this hour, the audience was far enough in their cups not to mind. The lad with the fiddle had a contagious energy, and he called for the room to join him on the chorus. Jaskier knew the words, of course, and it turned out not to be difficult to open his mouth and join in when his voice could be lost amongst all the others._

_“The busty Novigradian widow--hey ho!  
Her husband left quite a chest  
Of treasure behind  
But succor you’ll find  
When she draws you into her breast.”_

_The verses kept coming, including some Jaskier had never heard that may have been regional variations or pure improvisation, each more anatomically improbable than the last, and on every chorus the crowd joined in more loudly than before, until Jaskier was shouting at the top of his voice with absolutely terrible technique, and no one so much as looked his way._

_After a particularly rousing round of the chorus, the singer held out the last note of the final line, and the room dissolved in laughter, cheering, and clapping. Jaskier found that he was laughing, too, hard enough that his chest ached and he gasped for breath. He got himself under control enough to gulp down his ale and signal for another. He deserved it--he’d come through the hard part, and things would be back to normal soon._

Jaskier walked blindly, and it wasn’t until his feet hit the sun-warmed cobblestones of the courtyard that he realized he hadn’t put his boots back on. These hose would be ruined. “Bollocks,” he muttered. 

He stood at the edge of the courtyard and stared at the bright sunshine just coming up over the walls to paint the grounds with golden light. There was a line of a poem in there somewhere. Surely he could find it. 

After a moment, he heard footsteps in the corridor behind him. Yennefer stepped up beside him and held out his boots. Jaskier put them on wordlessly. 

“He's just spent more time with me since the spell. That's all,” said Yennefer.

“Right,” said Jaskier. “That's as it should be. You two are linked by destiny. That should be enough to overcome the effects of a silly old curse.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “Sorry, not fair. Not fair.”

She stood facing out beside him, watching the line of light move across the courtyard as the sun continued to rise. Eventually, she said, “Sometimes, when a person has gone through something like he has, it’s easier to be around people that aren’t like the ones that hurt you.”

“Or who aren’t actually the ones that hurt you.” Jaskier supposed he wouldn’t want the reminder, either, if someone had done to him what he’d done to Geralt. 

“He’s not stupid,” Yennefer said. “He understands why you did what you did, even if he hasn’t forgiven you.” 

“It’s good.” Jaskier let out a long, slow breath, and tried to believe it. “It is a good thing, that he remembers you. I am extremely jealous, of course, but I’m happy for you.”

“Jaskier, I keep telling you, it will take his mind some time to heal.” She gripped him by the arm and turned him so she could look him in the face. “It doesn't mean anything that his memory of me came back first.”

“Yen, it's alright.” And it was, in a way. Or at least alright for Geralt, which was something. “It’s enough that he has one of us. If his memory of me is the only collateral damage from this affair, then I'd say we got off pretty cheaply.”

“Stop that.” Yennefer tightened her grip on his arm. “Why are you giving up?”

“I don't want to try to force him to remember me. I had it in me when I was young and stupid to make him pay attention to me, as little as he wanted to at first. But I’m not that man anymore. I couldn’t do it again if I tried.” He gave a tired chuckle, thinking of how energetic he’d been, how incorrigible, how determined to succeed. “Why should he want to spend time with me, someone he currently loathes, when he could be with you? What we wanted was for him to trust one of us so he could relax and heal. And now he can. It's better,” he said, perhaps a bit too brightly. “It's better for all of us.”

“What did I tell you about self pity?” Yennefer’s eyes had narrowed, and her lips were pressed together in a thin, tight line. Those were never good signs.

“He’ll have time to remember me later. I’m not giving up, I swear,” Jaskier said quickly. “But he still needs to heal, and if he can feel safe with you, comfortable with you, then that will be better. And I’m trusting you to put in a good word for me.”

“What do you mean by that?” Yennefer’s glare intensified. 

“I think I should go away for a while.”

“You’re going to run away and sulk?” Her fingernails dug into his arm. 

“No, no.” He tried to shake loose of her grip, but she only tightened her fingers and glared. “You told me… The other night, you said he’d never remember me if I wasn’t like my old self.”

“That was humor. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“But there’s something in that. As long as I’m sitting here, waiting for him to remember me, I’m holding onto a past together that isn’t going to be like our future. Even if he remembers me--

“When he remembers you,” Yennefer corrected.

Jaskier sighed. “Even then, things will be different. They won’t just go back to the way they were. We’ll have to figure out something new. And I won’t be much of a companion to come back to as I am now. So if I can’t do anything to help him, I may as well help myself.”

“Jaskier--”

“I can’t sing, Yen.” He looked back out at the courtyard so he didn’t have to see Yennefer’s reaction. What he said was only the truth, but he hadn’t said it out loud yet. Given the weight of words, it sounded rather serious. “I haven’t played in months. I went to the Hind and Hound the other night and listened. It was… good. I think I'll be able to have my music again, but not here. I couldn’t sing where he could hear me.”

“I see.” She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she bumped her shoulder against his, hard enough to make him step back to catch himself. “You’re not doing this to punish yourself? As some grand dramatic gesture?”

“I promise,” Jaskier said. He wasn’t. He wanted Geralt to remember him, of course he did. But absence, he knew, made the heart grow fonder, and Geralt wasn’t likely to grow more fond of him when he had Yennefer as a point of comparison. Besides, it was almost summer now--a fine time to be on the road. “I’ve travelled alone before. I’m not helpless.”

“Make sure the cook provisions you well. Don’t want you to starve if you can’t sing for your supper. Gods know you have no other marketable skills,” Yennefer said, ever practical. “And come back here once in a while, or I’ll send a troll to find you and drag you back.”

Jaskier took her threats with a mix of pleasant familiarity and distant concern that she wasn’t joking. It was sometimes difficult to tell. But he knew affection when he saw it. “I never said thank you.”

“For what?” Yennefer asked, with a suspicious narrowing of her eyes. 

“For making me capable of bringing Geralt back. I couldn’t have done it on my own.”

She sniffed haughtily. “Purely self interest.”

“Of course,” Jaskier said gravely. Then, because he could see Yennefer was ready to bolt, he blurted out, “Be good to him.”

“I’ll only be half as good as both of us, so no promises,” she said brusquely. Dropping a quick kiss on Jaskier’s cheek, she disappeared back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Your support has helped encourage me to keep writing these past few months when the world has been kinda terrible. Next chapter should be up within a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your enthusiasm, all! Your comments have been very encouraging as I've been working on the home stretch of this story. Be sure to check the tags, as there are a few rough moments in this chapter. Thanks again to hobbitdragon and jaunechat for their continued assistance!

As soon as he could bear the noise and smells of the outdoors, Geralt strapped on his swords and tried his hand against the target dummy in the ring outside the salle. To his relief, he could hit what he meant to almost every time. His stamina was still abysmal, and his blows didn’t have as much strength behind them as they should have, but he wouldn’t have been ashamed to spar with Eskel now. He found, with a heartfelt Igni that set the dummy’s raggedy covering ablaze, that he could cast signs again as well, though there too he’d lost some of the finesse he’d gained from regular usage. But those things could return, with work. He could be who he was again.

“Here.” Essa, the housekeeper’s daughter, appeared beside him, lugging a bucket of water. She glared at him, then at the still-smoldering dummy.

Geralt picked up the bucket and doused the flames, leaving the dummy a sad, soggy mess on its stand.

Essa shook her head. “You should be more careful. Master Julian went through a lot of trouble to get that for you. Destroying it’s not very nice.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt said. The dummy’s head was listing alarmingly, but that Geralt could fix. Probably. He looked down at Essa. “Why do you call him Master Julian? That’s not his name.”

“It’s one of them.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, mum says it’s orders from Mistress Yennefer, because it annoys him, and she likes to annoy him. She says it's only fair.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sheathed his sword and started walking to the stables.

Essa fell into step beside him. “Are you going to go on adventures and slay monsters now that you can see again?” she asked.

“I don’t go on adventures,” he grumbled.

“But you do kill monsters. You told me,” she said. “Half the ones in that book, at least. A kikimora, and a drowner, and a leshen, and a--”

“Yes, I’ve killed a lot of monsters.”

“Is that your job? Like my mum is a housekeeper, and Mistress Yennefer is a sorceress and Master Julian is a poet, and you’re a monster fighter?”

“I’m a witcher,” he said, with more conviction than he might have a week ago.

“That’s a monster fighter,” she said with authority. “We don’t have any monsters around here, though. You gonna do a different job instead?”

“No,” he said firmly. If he could be out on the Path again, and it seemed he could, then he must. Geralt stopped at the door of the stable and crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have work or schooling or something?”

Essa made a face and a gesture unbecoming a young lady.

“Go on, get out of here,” Geralt said, and didn’t smile until she’d turned her back.

On the next sunny morning, Geralt took Roach out into the countryside. Before long, he was pointed in the direction of a noonwraith by a few local farmers he passed. They didn’t seem very concerned about the problem, and likely wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to hire a witcher, but they were happy enough to see Geralt. One of them even seemed to recognize him, explaining to his fellows that Geralt was “the sorceress’s white wolf.”

The wraith wasn’t very powerful, only haunting a small field the farmers had left fallow out of fear of her. Still, Geralt prepared as if he were facing a deadly foe, taking one of the elixirs Eskel had brewed for him and drawing his sword before he approached. In the end, he trapped her easily with the Sign of Yrden, and dispatched her with his silver blade.

After she disappeared in a burst of light, he stood in the sun awhile, waiting for the elixir to wear off and enjoying the afternoon warmth of late spring. The satisfaction he felt at his success was entirely out of proportion to the difficulty of the kill, but no one had to know that but him. On his way back, the farmers thanked him and handed over a few coins. Not enough of a bounty to have made the task worthwhile, really, but Geralt couldn’t afford professional pride at the moment. He may as well have been a journeyman witcher again, taking whatever paltry jobs he could find just for the practice.

Yennefer met him in the courtyard when he returned. “You smell like corpses,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Did a bit of business while you were out?”

“Yes.” Geralt couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t laugh if he told her how he’d spent his day, so he said nothing.

Yennefer watched him for a long moment, then said, “You need a bath.”

They spent a very pleasant evening in the warmth and humidity of the bath house, enjoying each other’s company. Though once, when Yennefer tugged at Geralt’s hair, which had just grown long enough to grasp, he forgot where he was for a moment. He caught her by the wrist hard enough that she gasped in pain. She tried to pull away, but he held on doggedly, so she couldn’t make another attack.

But there wasn't an attack, Geralt realized as he scented the humid air of the bath house. Nothing was wrong. He fought to get his breathing under control and still the shaking that wracked him.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s free hand stroked over his bare shoulder. “Relax. You’re safe.”

Geralt looked at her, stared into those violet eyes that were like no one else’s. Yennefer wouldn’t hurt him. At least, not like this, not on purpose. Geralt remembered the years it had taken for them to learn how to work around each other, to avoid the words and touches that brought more hurt than pleasure. But now there were new wounds to work around.

“I’m fine.” Geralt released her wrist. “Do it again.” He’d liked having her take charge of him, guide him where she wanted him. They’d both enjoyed it before. There was no reason--none at all--why he couldn’t have that.

“Geralt.” Her voice held a note of warning as she brushed her hand gently through his hair. “It’s me. You don’t need--”

“I do need,” Geralt interrupted. He couldn’t afford the weakness of a simple touch making him lose control. He needed to be better. “Do it again. Please.”

Yennefer leaned in to kiss him, teasingly gentle. When Geralt growled and tried to deepen the kiss, she tightened her grip in his hair and held him back.

Geralt pushed down the senseless surge of panic that touch provoked and obeyed the force of the pressure, going pliant and unresisting under her hand. He closed his eyes and concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths.

“Geralt,” Yennefer said sharply.

His eyes snapped open.

Yennefer’s hands were pressed flat against his chest, and she wore a severe frown. “Are you here?”

“Yes.” He took another shallow breath and let it out. “Of course I am.” He didn’t ask her to try again.

She rolled onto her back on the damp floor, pulling him with her, and Geralt was able to see her, feel her, smell her clearly. The scent of lilac and gooseberries guided him through until they were both thoroughly satisfied.

_“Well, what do you think?” Yennefer asked, looking back at Geralt._

_Geralt swept his gaze across the snowy courtyard. “It reminds me of the Temerian winter palace.”_

_“Well, that’s--”_

_“That had been given over to a rampaging striga for more than a decade.”_

_Yennefer made a rude noise._

_“It has potential,” said someone beside Geralt, who was looking up at the building’s facade. “I agree it needs… redecorating.”_

_“Why do you want my opinion anyway?” Geralt asked. “I know fuck all about architecture.”_

_“I thought it could be a kind of home for us.” Yennefer gave a nonchalant shrug. “A place to stay that isn’t a flea-infested inn or the faculty lodgings at Oxenfurt.”_

_Geralt stared at her, and she raised her chin and stared right back. Geralt looked away first, and glanced again across the sprawling courtyards. “But… it’s enormous.”_

_“Not a quarter the size of Kaer Morhen,” the unknown man put in. “And the four of you somehow manage to keep that place standing without any magic at all.”_

_“That’s your only objection?” Yennefer glared at Geralt. “It’s too big.”_

_“Not usually a complaint I hear from you,” said the man beside Geralt._

_Geralt absently reached out a hand to swat the man’s shoulder, prompting a surprised, “Ow!”_

_“If it’s not to your liking, then don’t worry yourself about it,” Yennefer said coldly. “You needn’t stay.”_

_“Yennefer.” Geralt wrapped an arm around her waist and felt her unbend fractionally. “I’m surprised, is all.”_

_“Told you you should have given him more hints,” said the other man._

_“Shut up,” Yennefer snapped. She glanced sidelong at Geralt. “So when it’s fixed up, you might deign to stay here on occasion?”_

_“I’d like that.”_

_She leaned against him, tension fading from her body. “Good. Come along, I want to show you the grounds.”_

Geralt was running at top speed, dodging trees and ignoring the thorns that snagged on his armor and tore at exposed skin. “Wait,” he shouted, but he was falling further and further behind. “Wait! Don’t leave!”

He woke in the pre-dawn light, gasping in short, sharp breaths. It took him several moments to recognize Yennefer’s room, its curtains drawn tight and the fire burnt to embers. His heart pounded in his chest so loudly he could hear nothing else. Yennefer was already sitting up in bed, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“I’m fine,” Geralt said immediately.

“Clearly.” Yennefer fixed him with an unimpressed look.

“Strange dreams. That’s all.” Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face and pulled himself upright. “I’m fine.”

“It’s not surprising you’re having nightmares.”

“I didn’t say nightmares,” Geralt protested. “I said strange dreams.”

“Your mind is still healing. It’s trying to shape what it knows into some kind of coherent order.” Yennefer slipped out of bed and wrapped a silk robe around her shoulders. “You recognize there’s a piece still missing, don’t you?”

“Hmm.” Geralt knew there were still gaps in his memories, but whether they revolved around Jaskier he had no way to judge except Yennefer’s surety.

“You know, a week ago, you couldn’t remember anything about me.”

Geralt reached out to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face against her. “Seems impossible.”

She extracted herself from his embrace only to climb back into the bed and curl up beside him. “And _when_ you remember Jaskier, it will seem exactly as impossible that you could ever have forgotten him.”

“Maybe.” That seemed incredibly unlikely to Geralt, though he had to admit he’d have thought the same thing about Yennefer.

“I’m not ungrateful that you’ve remembered me.” She trailed a hand over the bare skin of his shoulder, and he leaned into her touch. “But I really have only half of you back. And I’m never satisfied unless I have everything.”

“Huh.” Geralt sat up and looked at her. He knew how important she was to him, now, and he couldn’t imagine that the feeling was only half of what it should be. “Maybe you can explain how both of you happen to be somehow equally important to me. I find that difficult to believe, now that I remember you.”

“Don’t look so incredulous. Who wouldn’t want you?” She laughed at his scowl. “Fine, I won’t embarrass you with compliments. It was mostly a matter of Jaskier and I working things out on our own. You clearly weren’t going to figure it out. But I had some preexisting sympathy for your position.”

Geralt searched his memories for what she could possibly mean, and the town of Aedd Gynvael came suddenly to mind. “Istredd,” he said softly. Geralt had known who the sorcerer was, but now that his memories had returned, he knew why Istredd was important. Her first love, her oldest friend. Yennefer had shown Geralt what it meant to have one’s heart divided without being diminished.

“Yes.” Her smile was a little sad, and he remembered her well enough now to see it. “It wasn’t difficult. There’s enough of you to go around. And Jaskier and I… we’re different. Alone, neither of us could give you what you need.”

“And what is that?” Geralt asked warily.

“There’s a list.” Suddenly the sadness left her face, and in its place was the mischief he’d learned to both look forward to and be wary of. “Jaskier put it to music, in fact, and he sings when you’re grumpy.”

“Sings it?”

In a surprisingly tuneful alto, Yennefer sang,

“The White Wolf needs a bath,  
a warm and soothing bath.  
The White Wolf needs a nap,  
a sleepy-weepy nap.  
The White Wolf needs to say what he means,  
By that ‘hmm,’  
and I won’t stop the song until he does.”

“That’s awful.” Geralt glared at her. “It doesn’t even rhyme.”

“There are twelve more verses, but you get the idea,” Yennefer said breezily. Her smile faded as she kept looking at him. “Geralt, I can’t be everything for you. We’ve tried that. It’s a disaster.”

“I don’t need anything or anyone.” The answer was almost a reflex. “That’s the whole point of what I am.”

“Would you say that I _need_ someone?” Yennefer asked, with a spark in her eyes. “Me, one of the most powerful mages on the Continent? Or Jaskier, who was travelling the world on his own when he was barely out of the nursery? Do either of us need someone to make us complete?”

“No.” That wasn’t the same, of course. Geralt not only could be independent, he had to be. He’d trained all his life to be free of entanglements like the one pressed against him now, though somehow he couldn’t feel much regret at the moment.

“You can want things, Geralt.” Yennefer slid gracefully over to straddle him. “I do.”

“I want you, Yen. That I freely admit.”

She kissed him, but pulled back almost immediately. “Geralt. I know you. You will regret it if you don’t try to find your memories of Jaskier. No one is better at self-recrimination.”

“I just got you back.” He stroked a hand through her hair, soft and silky against his fingers. “Can’t I enjoy that for a while?”

“Don’t think that’s not a temptation.” She darted in again to kiss him, and ground down against his lap as she did. Geralt whined softly. Then she pulled back with a disappointed huff. “You and I will have time, if you manage to avoid getting yourself killed. Jaskier has perhaps another twenty years.”

“Hmm.” Geralt frowned as he pictured Jaskier--how old was the bard, anyway? Always difficult to tell with humans. Three years in captivity had felt like an eternity to Geralt, but out on the Path, decades seemed to pass in an instant. Twenty years was very little time. And when Geralt thought of not seeing Jaskier again, ever, there arose in him a sense of alarm.

Yennefer watched him, and even if she wasn’t reading his mind directly, she had picked up on his wavering resolve. “You could cut your losses and count half your memories returned as enough. But there are some really good ones you’d be giving up.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not to mention all the sex you two have had, about which you have waxed poetic to me on more than one occasion. Don’t worry, I’m not insecure enough to take offense.”

Geralt thought for a moment. He had no desire to give up the pleasures he’d only just rediscovered for the vague promise of something better. He’d learned long ago to take his comfort where he could find it. “You can share memories, read thoughts. Why don’t you just show me what I’m missing?”

“I know you well, but not completely. Never completely.” Yennefer shook her head. “Sharing my own thoughts is one thing, but sharing what Jaskier knows… I don’t think I could manage. Our minds are too different. There are others who hold parts of you that I can’t touch. I know I have to share you. With the Path, with the other Wolves, and with Jaskier.” She cupped his face in her hand and brushed a thumb across his cheek. “I’ve learned to appreciate sharing.”

“You want me to leave.” Geralt tensed, and the interest and pleasure that had been growing as Yennefer touched him evaporated. He knew he’d have to leave eventually; he had work to do. But he’d thought that Yennefer wouldn’t tire of him so quickly. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Geralt tried to push her off of him, but she clamped her legs around his hips and held on. “Stop that. You’re bored.”

Geralt made a noise of protest, and Yen shook her head.

“You are. Don’t deny it. Going after Aedirn’s least frightening noonwraith? What’s next, hunting a toothless wyvern? Resolving the matter of which local ruffian stole the pie from the windowsill of the alderman’s widow? That’s the kind of danger and conflict we have around here.”

“A noonwraith is still dangerous,” Geralt mumbled as he turned his head away. But she was right. He could practice against target dummies all he wanted, but he itched to be away, to be doing something, now that he could.

“It’s inevitable. Even before, you could never stay here longer than a month before getting restless. And you always come back.” She slid off of him and sat, leaning against his side. “And as long as you’re out on the road, you may as well find your bard and try to win him back.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Then don’t.” Yennefer pushed off the bed and tightened the belt of her robe. “Just resign yourself to never remembering large swaths of the past twenty years of your life. That sounds pleasant.”

Geralt sighed. He hated that she was right. But at least she wasn’t going to make him say it. He stood and caught her in his arms. “I don’t have to leave today, do I?”

“No,” Yennefer said quietly. “Not today.” She leaned in to kiss him. As she did, he slid his hands through her hair and breathed in the scent of lilac and gooseberries, hoping to store up enough of it that it wouldn’t fade in his memory.  
\--

Jaskier eyed the signs at the crossroads and sighed. Beneath him, the grey palfrey sighed as well, then stretched its head towards a leafy branch at the side of the road. Jaskier reined him in absently and said, “Go for the closer town that’s barely large enough for an inn, or face a night sleeping outside and reach a more respectable town tomorrow?”

The horse flicked his ears back, but did not comment.

“I know you. You want a warm stable and a hot mash now, and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”

The horse stamped a foot and eyed the branch again speculatively.

“Well, we have to think of the future, my gluttonous friend, not only what pleases us right now.” Jaskier nudged the horse with his heels and guided him to the left, resigning himself to an uncomfortable night and a backache in the morning.

Jaskier was too used to his creature comforts (and, if he was honest, too old) to sleep out on the road all summer, but one night would hardly kill him. He had enough coin saved up to keep him in inns for a few months, if he supplemented with earnings along the way. That meant making himself sing again.

“Well, I can work up to that,” Jaskier muttered. The horse shook a fly off its neck and kept walking.

After that...well, he wouldn’t be going back to Vengerberg for the winter. He’d write to the Dean of the Faculty of Music at Oxenfurt and offer his services as a lecturer. The old man would be only too happy to have him on the payroll. This summer would be like old times, trying out new material in country inns, visiting every féte and festival in the north, and charming a new bedmate in every town. Except having his own horse and a purseful of orens would ensure he wasn’t quite so hungry and tired as he’d been back in his younger days.

The larger town ended up being worth the trouble, in the end. Jaskier chose the most prosperous-looking of the inns, and watched a minstrel butcher several love ballads, including one of Jaskier’s own, with inexcusably clumsy fingering and a high range like a squeaky cart wheel. He might not have been the worst musician Jaskier had seen in the last fortnight of travel, but he was in the running. Jaskier’s plan to spur himself back into playing through spite was well on its way to success.

At least the ale was passable. Jaskier drank almost as quickly as the barmaid could bring him fresh tankards, until the room was pleasantly fuzzy and warm. Not so fuzzy, however, that he didn’t eventually notice the pointed attention of a messenger in Redanian royal colors, a light-haired man with broad shoulders and a generous smile sitting alone at a table by the far wall.

As Jaskier returned the man’s stare, a name swam to the surface of his thoughts: Hadwin. Jaskier had bedded him a handful of times in the past couple of years when their paths had crossed, most often in Oxenfurt or Vengerberg. The man was a pleasant bedmate, and had no desire for entanglement beyond the physical. His presence was extremely fortuitous.

Jaskier nodded at Hadwin, who raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Jaskier downed the rest of his ale, rose, and walked with minimal stumbling towards the stairs, turning back once to make sure Hadwin followed.

In his room, Jaskier took a moment to dig his waterskin out of his gear and toss it next to the bed. He’d be grateful for it in the morning. He also grabbed a small bottle of oil. No point in being bashful.

That gave Hadwin a head start at undressing, so Jaskier hurried to catch up, cursing as his hands fumbled at the buttons on his doublet.

Hadwin, hopping on one foot as he finished stripping off his pants, chuckled. “Peacock,” he said as he came to help Jaskier with the fussy row of buttons. “If you didn’t wear such fancy clothes, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“If I didn’t wear such fancy clothes, how would I turn the head of handsome royal messengers?”

“Touché.”

Conversation stalled as they kissed enthusiastically. It felt nice, stable, to learn against Hadwin’s solid chest. Jaskier’s hands roamed over Hadwin’s back, which was well-muscled but unscarred. He settled his hands around Hadwin’s waist and kissed him harder.

“Even without your clothes, you have many positive qualities,” Hadwin said. He reached between them to wrap a hand around Jaskier’s hardening cock.

“Lucky me,” Jaskier replied, pushing up into Hadwin’s touch. The banter came easily to him, as if by rote. He knew all the steps in this dance well. A warm ember of satisfaction flared in him, both at being desired and at providing pleasure himself. He wanted more of that warmth.

He caught Hadwin’s hand and drew him to the bed. Hadwin followed, and went easily when Jaskier guided him down onto his back. Jaskier climbed astride him, drinking in the groan of satisfaction that emerged as their cocks slid together. He knew all the steps to this dance, too.

Jaskier licked his palm and wrapped his fingers around both of them, squeezing gently. Hadwin groaned and tipped back his head, so Jaskier leaned forward to kiss his exposed throat and to bury a hand in hair that seemed far too short. But Hadwin had always worn his hair regulation short. And Jaskier wasn’t thinking of anyone else now, only the man he was with.

“Do you want me inside you?” Jaskier whispered

“Fuck. Yes, yes,” Hadwin groaned.

Jaskier gave their cocks another friendly squeeze, then rolled off so Hadwin could get on all fours. Jaskier knelt behind him and ran his hands appreciatively over Hadwin’s lovely ass. “Go on, keep yourself warmed up for me.” With a fast exhale of pleasure, Hadwin took hold of his cock and began stroking it steadily. Jaskier slid his hands down to grasp Hadwin by the thighs and push his legs further apart to give himself room to work.

Hadwin hissed in pain and jerked away from Jaskier’s touch.

Jaskier recoiled, scrambling back until he slammed against the footboard of the bed. “S-sorry,” he stammered, holding up his hands.  
  


_He let his clothing fall to the floor and stepped in front of Geralt, who immediately turned his attention to him as towards a dangerous monster._

_“Now, you’re going to suck my cock.” Jaskier held up a finger at the incredulous look on Geralt’s face. “You’re going to do it nicely, as if I’m a lover you’re trying to please. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, your royal highness,” Geralt said in a tone that rather sounded like, “I will tear your entrails out.”_

_“Go on, then.”._

_With an expression of absolute disgust, Geralt reached out to tug at the laces of Jaskier’s breeches._

Fear spilled into Jaskier as if he’d jumped into icy water, stealing all his breath. “Sorry, are you--”

“It’s nothing, just a bruised thigh. That’s why I’m holed up here for a few days.” Hadwin turned to look at Jaskier. “Are you--”

“Fine,” Jaskier said, too quickly. He clenched his fists to stop them shaking, and pasted on a smile. “Just startled.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” Hadwin hesitated, then said, “If you don’t want--”

“No, I do want. I very want,” Jaskier said, and he did. His erection had wilted considerably, but he still longed for that warm spark he’d felt. He wanted that comfort more than ever now. And Hadwin was fine. He hadn’t looked at Jaskier with disgust and condemnation. He wouldn’t flinch if Jaskier touched him again, probably.

Jaskier reached out slowly and trailed his fingers down Hadwin’s chest. Hadwin shivered and leaned into the touch, unafraid.

“Yes, want,” Jaskier said again. “Just, something different, perhaps. I just had too much to drink. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Hadwin, who couldn’t have been more than a handful of years younger than Jaskier, huffed out a laugh and waved a hand elaborately. “Oh mighty and venerable sage, thank you for the wisdom of the ages.”

“You’re most welcome,” Jaskier said, giving a bow. “And there are plenty of other fun things we can do.” He pressed Hadwin back into the bed and proceeded to demonstrate quite thoroughly. The icy fear faded and that warm spark of pleasure returned and flared until it blotted out all else.

At dawn, Jaskier woke with a tremendous hangover. Hadwin was there to laugh at him before fetching breakfast for the two of them from the innkeeper. They sat at the room’s tiny table and ate, Hadwin making amused but sympathetic noises at Jaskier’s litany of grievances against the world, starting with ale and ending with lumpy mattresses.

When Jaskier rode out of the inn’s stable yard, Hadwin leaned against the side of the barn, waving, and shouted, “Until next time, bard.”

It wasn’t until he was out on the road that Jaskier felt the lack of someone at his side. If it had been he and Geralt in the inn room last night, Geralt would be teasing Jaskier about his hangover and making the occasional suggestive comment. And if he wanted to, Jaskier could have said something like, “Sorry. I’m still worried about hurting you. After the…” And Geralt would know what he meant, and say something like, “You’re not going to hurt me. I won’t let you.” And Jaskier could say, perhaps, “No, you would, that’s the problem.” And they might shout at each other for a bit until Roach got sick of it and either ran ahead a little ways or veered into Jaskier’s palfrey so they’d have to worry about untangling the stirrups, and then Jaskier would apologize, and Geralt would grunt, and none of that was going to happen. None of it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck the stupid feelings,” Jaskier sang, making his horse snort and turn back to glare at him. Jaskier ignored it. The horse would learn to deal with his music sooner or later. Just like some witchers had. Jaskier busied himself by humming all the masterwork compositions of all the bards who’d graduated in his year at Oxenfurt, even the really boring ones, even Valdo Marx’s insipid “Allegory of the Spheres,” and that occupied him until the next crossroads.

_Jaskier awoke to the usual nighttime sounds--frogs chirping from the swamp and the creaking of the pines as they swayed in the wind. But he felt sure the howl of some wild animal had awoken him._

_“Geralt.” Jaskier reached behind him to shove Geralt awake, but his hand landed on a carpet of pine needles rather than a bedroll. Jaskier whipped around to look._

_But of course there was no bedroll, because Geralt wasn’t here. Geralt was dead._

_“Missing,” Jaskier whispered into the darkness. “Not dead.” He flopped onto his back and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. If there was a creature out there hungering for human flesh, he did not care. Let it eat him. That would solve some problems._

_It had been like this since the spring. Jaskier somehow still hadn’t mastered the trick of not feeling a surge of hope whenever he caught sight of long white hair in a tavern. It always turned out to be some local grandfather (or grandmother) and not a witcher. And on the road, Jaskier still slowed his horse whenever he heard the clip clop rhythm of a single rider approaching. It was never Geralt--how could it have been, with Roach back in Vengerberg eating her head off and terrorizing the stable lads? And once, weeks ago, Jaskier had run halfway up a mountain when he’d heard a vendor in a market stall mention a witcher who’d been sent to deal with a gryphon problem. Jaskier met Lambert coming back down the path lugging a gryphon head and greeted him, Jaskier was sorry to remember, with less enthusiasm than was appropriate for a friend._

_“Well, fuck you, too,” Lambert had said, though without much rancor. “Here, carry my swords. They’re heavy with all that blood crusted on.”_

_They’d gotten well and truly drunk that night, and Lambert had told Jaskier stories he’d never heard before about winters at Kaer Morhen, and the time Geralt set the roof on fire. Definitely neither of them had cried._

_Jaskier turned over in his bedroll and deliberately closed his eyes. He’d always imagined he’d spend his retirement somewhere with Geralt, though he studiously avoided imagining the part where he’d grow old and feeble while Geralt hardly changed at all. It made sense his brain would take a while to let go of that fantasy. And this time, Jaskier had been half-asleep, so the slip was understandable. But he needed to stop. Stop expecting to see Geralt, stop looking for him everywhere he went. Because Geralt was dead._

_“Missing,” he muttered again, but without much conviction._

_The next afternoon, he rode into a town with two inns, and once he had an arrangement at one, he didn’t go to inspect the clientele of the other. He didn’t wander the marketplace looking for anyone selling exotic monster parts that might have a witcher as a source. He spent his performance idly flirting with ladies at the nearby tables instead of scrutinizing each person who walked through the door. But he still sang, “Toss a Coin,” old chestnut though it was, at the end of his performance. Just in case._

__

Jaskier squelched through the muddy courtyard in the pouring rain, stepped through the door of the town’s grand old inn, and sighed in relief at the warmth.

“Master Jaskier!” the innkeeper called, gesturing from behind the bar. “It’s been an age!”

Jaskier stepped up to the bar, squinting at the man’s face and groping for a name. “Maciej! Always a pleasure.”

Jaskier glanced over the crowd, which was growing as townsfolk stepped in to escape the dreary weather. At the far end of the room, a young man with a prominent chin and elaborately coiffed dark hair was strumming uncertainly on an expensive-looking lute. “I see you already have a musician for the evening.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Maciej muttered, looking glum. “My sister’s son. Proudest little shit you ever did meet. Convinced he’s the gods’ gift to music, but he can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Still, this is a decent crowd.” Jaskier did some quick math on the average take for a crowd this size. Not bad. “He’s bringing them in?”

“The opposite. They drink down their ale and run as soon as they can. The place’ll be empty afore I’ve served out half the stewpot. But if there’s no one else to play, how can I say no?”

“Oh, he can’t be that bad,” Jaskier said. He had heard quite a number of awful bards over the past few months, each horrible in their own unique way. He doubted this one could be worse than what he’d already endured.

“And now,” said the boy in an affected tenor, “Here’s another original composition I know you’ll enjoy.”

There were some mutinous mutterings around the room, but the boy strummed loudly to drown them out.

“My lady’s eyes are like the skies.” He stopped, changed his fingering, and tried the last chord again, to ill effect. “Skies.” He tried once more, and this time seemed satisfied, though Jaskier wasn’t sure why. “Skies! Her nose is like a mirr’r.”

“A mirror?” Jaskier mouthed at Maciej, but the man only shook his head in despair.

“Her ears--” He stopped again, strummed the same dissonant chord, and hummed a few different notes until he found the one he wanted. “Ears are beautiful delicate shells. Oh how I long to see’r.”

“Mirror and see her?” Jaskier said in horror. “No, no, absolutely not. It is an affront to the gods.” He found himself striding forward, edging past the seated patrons to where the unfortunate would-be minstrel stood. “Sit down, my young friend. May I?” He plucked the lute from the youngster’s hands, ignoring his half-formed objections. “Thank you.”

Jaskier plucked at the lute string and winced. “Ah, see, that’s part of your problem. These things do need to be tuned. Tuned, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” He said, looking at the man, who stared back at him blankly. “Hey, lad!” Jaskier called to one of the passing kitchen boys. “Bring me my lute case from next to the bar, there. Good boy.”

Jaskier shoved the well-made but hopelessly out of tune lute back into the other musican’s arms and accepted his own instrument. He tuned it as quickly as he could, grateful for the years of experience that had made impromptu performances a necessity. Nothing like the motivation of needing to sing a baby siren to sleep to make one tune like the wind.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jaskier called as he stepped--his knees weren’t really up to leaping anymore--onto a chair. “A round of applause for the dashing young minstrel--what’s your name? Never mind. A unique talent. But a foul night such as this calls for cheerful songs, do you agree? I’ll bet a round of ale that you can all sing along with this one. Oh fishmonger--”

The crowd was very ready to be pleased, and took up the song almost immediately. Jaskier played a jig next that had some of the younger couples in the place up and dancing. After that, “The Goatherd’s Handsome Highwayman,” then a rousing version of “The Heroes of Sodden Hill.” The enthusiasm of the crowd lifted his mood more than the finest ale ever could. He settled into the rhythm of his performance, reading the ebbs of flows of his audience’s moods and riding them like a bird coasting on thermal winds.

His fingers, somewhat lacking in stamina from recent disuse, gave out before his voice, and he finished off with a Jaskier original from a few years back that they’d be humming for days. “The Spotted Heifer and the Thirsty Knight,” freely adapted from a story Geralt had made Jaskier promise never to associate with him, was always a crowd pleaser. When he finished, shouts and applause echoed through the room, as warm as the inn’s blazing fire.

“Thank you, thank you. Too kind. Toss a coin to your barmaid, won’t you? She’s working hard. Thank you, all.” Jaskier packed up his lute, ignoring the savage glare of the young troubadour who was still clutching his lute, and sauntered back to the bar.

“I hope I haven’t gotten you in trouble with your sister,” he said once Maciej finished a flurry of pouring.

“Fuck it,” Maciej said cheerfully. “I’ll endure being shouted at if it means takings like these. Best night I’ve had in months. You’ve more than earned a room, if you want one.”

“Thank you, I will. And perhaps some of that stew before you run out?”

Jaskier sat in his warm, clean room, shoveling stew into his mouth with his left hand while he scribbled notes with his right. He had an idea for a ballad, a comedic cautionary tale of a young minstrel whose terrible singing caused universal impotence in the towns where he performed.

Jaskier lit another taper when the first burned down, and then another. By the time he crawled into bed, his fingers were ink-stained and cramping, and pale dawn light had started to filter through the window. He wouldn’t be getting on the road before noon.

“Just like old times,” he muttered into the pillow, and felt only a momentary pang that Geralt wouldn’t be there to scold him awake.  
\--

Geralt almost missed the turning onto a game trail, but he spotted a bright thread snagged in the briars and pulled Roach to a halt at the side of the road. Someone had come this way recently. The innkeeper in the last village had said the bard had left just this morning. Unless Jaskier was pushing his horse hard, he had to be stopped for the night already. There wasn’t another village for 20 miles at least, and Geralt assumed the man had the sense not to ride on in the dark. He hoped.

That the innkeeper had given Geralt the information he needed readily seemed odd. No one at the inn had given Geralt a second glance when he arrived. The innkeeper had even asked if he needed a room for the night. Usually it took some convincing, or at least some glowering, to get a landlord to accept his coin. But in his last few weeks of traveling, he’d had people nod politely to him as he rode through a village. A merchant who’d wanted Geralt to deal with a rock troll harassing his caravan had addressed Geralt as “Master Witcher.” And in one village, a crowd of children had run after Roach shouting, “White Wolf, White Wolf!” When at last Geralt had turned around to snarl at them, they all threw what he’d thought were pebbles. That was no surprise--children loved teasing outcasts. But then, out of reflex, Geralt had caught one of the items they’d thrown at him. He opened his hand to see a shiny half-groat on his palm.

One of the children had squealed, “That’s mine! He picked mine! I win, I win!” The whole group had stood there, giggling and shouting and picking up the coins they’d thrown from the dusty road as Roach kept walking. Geralt had put the coin in his purse and rode on, very puzzled. At least they hadn’t thrown rocks.

All in all, it hadn’t been as difficult as Geralt had expected, being back on the Path. He’d picked up enough contracts that he hadn’t needed to dip into the funds Yennefer had insisted on sending with him. None of the contracts had been too troublesome, and Geralt was well on his way back to fighting trim. Nor had it been difficult to get news about Jaskier’s whereabouts. It seemed every resident of each town he had passed through remembered the bard vividly, and was happy to point out the way he’d gone.

Not that Geralt had been looking for Jaskier, precisely. But if they happened to end up in the same place, well, he could see if anything about the man encouraged his memory to return. So it only made sense to seek him out, if he really was this close.

Geralt turned Roach down the trail into the twilight woods. From up ahead came the smell of woodsmoke and the crackle of a fire. Geralt dismounted and led Roach onwards. It wouldn’t do to frighten whoever was camped here with the appearance of an armed and mounted Witcher, whether it proved to be Jaskier or not.

He left Roach tethered to a tree and stepped into the camp, squinting at the bright firelight. A single bedroll was laid out haphazardly by the fire, and a bag lay slumped on its side against a tree, with some clothes strewn about beside it. The charred carcass of a rabbit, picked nearly clean, was suspended over the fire on a makeshift spit. It looked like someone had left in a hurry.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s heartbeat picked up as he focused on looking for signs of a struggle. His eyes fell on the lute case, propped against a log on the far side of the fire. He edged further into the camp, and slowly drew his sword. The clearing was thoroughly trampled, though it was impossible to tell how many sets of footprints there had been. He nudged the rumpled bedroll with his foot, but it seemed ordinary enough. Not spattered with blood or torn apart by a wild beast. The birds and animals had gone quiet, but the continuous susurrations of the wind in the trees meant he couldn’t pick out a heartbeat or the tell-tale sound of breathing.

“Jaskier!” he called.

“Geralt?” The voice came from downwind.

Geralt whirled with his sword raised, conscious that he was conveniently silhouetted against the fire, making an excellent target for an arrow or a throwing knife. His eyes adjusted quickly, however, and he soon made out the form of a man half hidden behind a tree just out of the ring of firelight.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asked. He had a dagger in his hand, and didn’t move away from cover.

“Looking for you.”

“Huh.” Jaskier was silent for a moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind?” He threw the dagger in his hand, which buried itself in the dirt at Geralt’s feet.

Geralt sheathed his sword and crouched, keeping an eye on Jaskier, who already had another knife in his hand. When Geralt pulled the dagger out of the ground, he saw that the blade was silver. He looked up at Jaskier. “You think I’m a monster?”

“Call it an abundance of caution,” Jaskier said, but there was no tone of humor in his voice. “I just have a difficult time believing the real Geralt would come looking for me.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “Fine.” He sliced the blade against his left palm.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt!” Jaskier dashed across the space between them and dropped to his knees in the dirt beside him. “You only have to touch the silver, not skewer yourself with it!” He snatched up Geralt’s hand and clucked his tongue at the sight of welling blood. “Come on, I’ve got some bandages in my pack. We only just got your hands fixed, and you go and undo all my good work.”

“That was two months ago,” Geralt said with a raised eyebrow.

“Was it?” Jaskier froze and looked back at him, then up, as if calculating the date.

“And it’ll heal.”

Jaskier left off his contemplation of time and waved a hand impatiently. “Let me bandage it anyway.”

__

_Geralt returned from scrubbing off the worst of the harpy guts in the frigid stream to find a campfire blazing. He stripped off his wet shirt and went to stand in the blessedly warm heat._

_“This smoke can be seen for miles,” Geralt said as he watched the grey column drift up into the trees._

_“If anyone else is in these woods, they definitely heard that harpy screaming when it tried to eat you,” someone said from across the fire. “It wasn’t subtle.”_

_“I don’t need the fire. And we really don’t need Count Falwick’s soldiers coming to interrogate us.”_

_“Well, I’m cold.”_

_“Hmm.” Geralt gave up arguing. The heat of the fire on his chilled skin was pleasant. But he couldn’t laze around forever. “I have to get Roach out of her tack.” He’d only left it this long because the stench of harpy blood made her particularly bitey._

_“It’s done. Oh, and that browband needs to be reinforced again.”_

_Geralt glanced over to see Roach tethered in a clearing a short distance through the trees, happily munching on long grass. He also saw that his bedroll and another were laid out neatly on the far side of the fire. Geralt’s saddlebags were hung from a broken branch nearby, with the damaged bridle draped over them._

_“Here.”_

_Geralt took the piece of bread he was offered. It was nice stuff, white and soft, most of a loaf._

_“I snatched this on our way out of town. After the baker made the sign of the evil eye behind your back.” The man sounded completely unapologetic. “I’m not really equipped to catch game.”_

_“You could if you wanted to.”_

_“I have tried, Geralt!” the man protested._

_“I just mean you’re not an imbecile,” Geralt said quickly. “If you wanted to learn, you could.”_

_“Oh.” The man took another bite of bread from his much smaller portion and chewed thoughtfully._

_“Anyway, I’m not hungry,” Geralt lied. He had been too busy dealing with harpy guts to contribute anything to their provisions, and he could certainly go without more easily than a human. “Here.”_

_“Keep the bread. You might want it later.”_

_Geralt glanced around the camp once more, and saw that all the usual chores had been taken care of. It was… pleasant, he realized, to have someone to travel with who knew their work. “You didn’t leave me anything to do.”_

_“That’s the point. There might be something else we want to do with our time.”_

_Geralt smiled and took a bite of the bread._

They both sat on Jaskier’s rumpled bedroll for the procedure, reprising the steps of the doctoring Jaskier had attempted in Yennefer’s workshop. Geralt remembered the melodic hum he’d heard when Jaskier had touched him that day, and felt a touch of wistfulness that he could only feel the warm touch of his skin as Jaskier dabbed at the bloody cut with a wet cloth.

In the warm glow of the firelight, he looked different than he had in Vengerberg. Better, in fact. He’d put on some weight, so he didn’t seem so wan and fragile. He’d grown out a beard, with a few silver hairs scattered in among the brown, which he kept neatly trimmed close to his face. And he didn’t smell miserable. Geralt had gotten used to the sour hint of anxiety when Jaskier was around, which, when his senses had been muddled, had translated as a pale yellow haze. Jaskier hadn’t been afraid of Geralt, but he’d held himself tightly controlled, as if unsure of his footing. But this Jaskier smelled of confidence and ease. Geralt wondered if he should be doing a silver test of his own.

If someone were impersonating Jaskier, though, Geralt couldn’t imagine their motive. Jaskier was focused on his task, showing no inclination to suddenly reveal himself as an imposter. As easy as Jaskier had been to track, anyone hunting him could easily have followed him here, but perhaps they would not have found the bard easy prey. Jaskier had cleaned the silver dagger already and set it within arm’s reach. He had at least one other on his person somewhere, though Geralt noted approvingly that its whereabouts weren’t obvious at first glance. And, of course, he’d managed to avoid Geralt’s notice long enough to put Geralt in a position vulnerable to attack when he entered the camp. “Have you always been this paranoid?” Geralt asked.

“Not paranoid. Appropriately alert.” Jaskier looked up from his ministrations and smiled at Geralt. “After the third or fourth scathing lecture from you on letting monsters and/or brigands into the camp, I learned to be more cautious.”

“You were downwind,” Geralt pointed out. “Not a bad way to hide from a witcher.” He couldn’t imagine instructing someone in how to get the jump on a witcher, but even if Jaskier hadn’t learned it from him, he’d picked up the knowledge somewhere.

“Witchers aren’t the only adversaries who can smell prey. I did have twenty years to learn your tricks.” Jaskier drew a clean length of cloth out of his kit, and began wrapping Geralt’s injured hand with careful efficiency. “I’m flattered that you approve of my defensive skills, but are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

“Why wouldn’t I seek you out?” Geralt shifted, and Jaskier grabbed his wrist to steady it before he kept going.

“Well, because, as you have said repeatedly, I hurt you. That’s not something I’m expecting to be forgiven for.” Jaskier let out a chuckle that sounded anything but happy. “And because, as you have both reassured me, Yennefer is a very impressive lover.”

“Funny. She said roughly the same thing about you.”

“She what?” Jaskier looked up, wide-eyed, to stare at Geralt. Then he quickly shook his head. “Well, that terrifying bit of news aside, you had everything you needed in Vengerberg.”

Geralt stared into the fire. He wasn’t sorry to have left, exactly. Being out on the Path again felt good as well as painful, like popping a dislocated joint back into place. But even without Yennefer’s reminders, the holes in his past were becoming more visible to him each day. “I’m missing some memories.”

“You seem to be in fine witchering form despite that, self-inflicted injuries notwithstanding. How’s business been?”

“Surprisingly good,” Geralt said. It occurred to him that if Jaskier had really been his travel companion for so long, he might be able to clear up a mystery. “Outside Gors Velen, the children threw groats at me instead of stones.”

“Ohhhhh.” Jaskier eyes widened, and then he sighed. “That’d be the song.”

“What song?”

“Uh.” Jaskier swallowed and looked away. “That bandage should hold until the cut heals. I'll check it in the morning.” He patted Geralt’s hand and stood to put away his healing supplies.

“Why won’t you tell me about the song?” Geralt pushed to his feet and stood watching Jaskier rummage in his bag.

“I was young when I wrote it. Didn’t expect it to be popular this long. If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have…” He shook his head and sighed. “But it has made the Path somewhat more lucrative.”

“How?” Geralt had no idea how Jaskier writing a song would result in him or any other witcher getting paid.

“It’s not important.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, and asked, “Where are you headed after this?”

“Where are you headed?” Geralt countered.

“Tretogor. For a musical exhibition.”

“Perhaps I’ll go with you,” Geralt said, and enjoyed the look of confusion on Jaskier’s face. There was definitely something familiar about the pleasure of surprising this man.

“To the musical exhibition in Tretogor,” Jaskier said slowly.

“Perhaps.”

Jaskier stared at him. “I am genuinely concerned you’re not yourself.”

“I want my memories back.” There were some really good ones, Yennefer had said. Geralt was starting to believe it. “Yennefer thinks spending time with you in the best way to do that.”

“All right.” Jaskier folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “You can come along if you can keep up.”

“If I can--”

Jaskier waved a hand extravagantly. “I can’t slow my pace to the soft kind of travel you may be used to--

“Soft?” Geralt said incredulously.

“But if you’re able to toughen up a little, I’m sure we can manage.” Jaskier poked a finger at Geralt’s arm, but Geralt caught his hand and held it.

“Have you always been this infuriating?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s warm smile faltered a little, and he drew his hand back out of Geralt’s grip. “Do you really want to come to Tretogor?”

The idea of spending a few weeks on the road with this man didn’t seem particularly onerous, now that Geralt was faced with the reality of it. And if Jaskier proved insufferable, Geralt could simply leave. No one controlled him now. He could go where he chose.

“I suppose I may as well,” Geralt said gruffly, and Jaskier’s smile turned absolutely radiant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love hearing your thoughts. Next chapter will be up within the week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some canon-typical graphic violence, and some humans die. If you want to skip that, tap out of the scene where multiple swords start swingin'. As always, thanks to hobbitdragon and jaunechat for beta assistance.

After two weeks on the road together, Jaskier was starting to feel like the advantage of having his memories was perhaps a little unfair. Traveling with Geralt was like old times, but the really old ones: like repeating a song that had stumped Jaskier as a journeyman, but now felt laughably simple because his hands knew all the chords by heart, and the rhyme scheme was so familiar he could make up new verses on the spot with no trouble at all.

Jaskier knew not to take offence at Geralt’s short temper when he got hungry before the evening meal. Jaskier had taken to carrying some dried meat or fruit that time of day; if he nibbled a bit, he could usually get away with offering the greater part to Geralt. He knew not to talk too loudly if Geralt returned to their camp with his eyes still black from a potion. He knew to ask before helping Geralt take off his armor. And even though these days Geralt wasn't met with nearly the amount of suspicion he had been twenty years ago, Jaskier still inserted himself into negotiations and requests for coin, easing the way with smiles and friendly words to complement Geralt’s grunts.

Geralt had been looking at Jaskier more often in the past week, eyeing him speculatively when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking. Jaskier hoped that wasn’t because he mistrusted Jaskier’s motives. It wasn’t cheating to use knowledge about Geralt that he’d earned fair and square through years of trial and error.

Geralt had also begun touching Jaskier again from time to time: offering a hand to help him up after he tripped on a rocky path, brushing his fingers against Jaskier’s when he handed him a waterskin, touching Jaskier’s shoulder to get his attention. It wouldn’t have been unusual, before, but because Jaskier had been so aware of not touching Geralt since he’d returned, each touch drew his attention like a light draws a moth.

Just this morning, Geralt had caught Jaskier when he would have lost his balance on the slippery rocks crossing a stream. He’d drawn Jaskier against his chest, the whole warm length of him pressed up against Jaskier’s back. Geralt had set him safely back on his feet again and walked on without comment. But that one moment of contact had kept Jaskier distracted and a little clumsy for several hours afterwards, as he tried not to smell like completely unadulterated desire. Geralt had just started to thaw towards him a bit, and Jaskier didn’t need to ruin that by letting his stupid libido forget that this Geralt wasn’t really _his_ Geralt.

Another important Geralt fact Jaskier knew was that when they’d been on the road more than a week, and Geralt started to eye the buildings in the villages they rode through wistfully, looking for an inn, that it was time to start complaining about his aching backside and demanding that they stay in a proper room with proper bathing facilities.

They reached the next town just after sunset. Geralt went inside to see to a room while Jaskier led both horses into the stableyard and waited for the hostler to be finished with the extremely drunk merchant and his apprentice who’d ridden in before them. From where he stood in the stableyard, Jaskier could clearly hear the landlady’s voice as she spotted Geralt.

“Master Geralt! Always a pleasure to see you. It’s been too long. Far too long! Where have you been keeping yourself? Never mind that. Same room as usual, then? Bette, look who’s here! Heat some water. Master Geralt will be wanting a bath after a long day on the road. Don’t you worry your little head about anything. I’ll get you a nice dinner and some wine and send it up. Where’s that handsome bard of yours? I hope he hasn’t gotten himself into trouble, poor creature. He’s such a dear boy.”

Jaskier squinted up at the inn sign in the fading evening light: two white hares. They used to stop here often. Very often. He cleared his throat and led the horses forward a few paces, but the hostler was entirely occupied with keeping the merchant from stumbling into the midden heap, and paid Jaskier no mind.

“Our little Erik still asks after the both of you. Always, ‘When are the Witchers coming back, Ma?’ Erik thinks your bard’s a witcher, too, though you can hardly blame him for that. It’d be kind of you to say hello to him in the morning before you get on your way, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’ll make sure we’ve got a good breakfast ready for you. If you’re tired now, just imagine how tired the two of you will be in the morning!”

At last, the hostler left the merchant to the care of his apprentice and turned to Jaskier. Jaskier shoved both horse’s reins into the man’s hands, and as he hurried inside, called, “Careful, she bites!”

“Oh, there he is!” The innkeeper waved at Jaskier from behind the bar, and Geralt, a little wide-eyed, also turned to look at him. “Master Jaskier, you’re looking well.”

“And you’re more beautiful than ever, Marta.” Jaskier reached over the bar to take her hand, and kissed it as gallantly as if she were a queen. “How is Bette?”

“Fit as a fiddle. For which I thank the two of you every day. She’s drawing a bath in your usual room, and I told Master Geralt I’d send up some refreshments. I’ll have her leave them outside so she don’t disturb you. I know you must have a busy night planned.”

“Thank you, Marta. We should head up,” Jaskier said urgently. “You’re an angel, truly. Come on, Geralt.” Jaskier grabbed Geralt by the arm and steered him up the stairs.

Geralt followed easily enough, but as Jaskier dragged him into the hall, he asked quietly, “What was that all about?”

“We helped her out with a family issue a few years ago,” Jaskier explained. She wasn’t the only excessively enthusiastic former client they’d accumulated in their years of travelling together, but she was the first Jaskier had met in a while. “She’s been… very grateful ever since.”

Jaskier led the way down the corridor to their usual room and pushed the door open. A full tub sat steaming in front of the hearth. Fresh flower petals littered the surface of the water, and the smell of lavender wafted up with the steam. “Oh no,” he moaned.

From behind him in the doorway, Geralt rumbled, “Jaskier, what is this?”

“I’m sorry. I swear I’d forgotten how overboard she usually goes. She’s quite a romantic.” Jaskier looked at the single large bed, also strewn liberally with flower petals, and squeezed his eyes shut. Not good. “I can go sleep in the stable.”

Geralt sighed, and stepped past Jaskier into the room. “Don’t be foolish. It’s fine. A bath is a bath.”

“If you say so.” Jaskier glanced at the profusion of candles flickering merrily next to the bed, then up at the ceiling with a plea for patience, and then he shut the door to the room.

_Jaskier trudged up the steps with his lute slung over his back and the applause of the crowd ringing in his ears. He pushed open the door to his room. It was dark and cold. No fire blazing in the hearth, no wine already poured, no witcher sharpening his swords in the corner. Because Geralt was dead._

_“He’s not dead,” Jaskier muttered to the empty room. He kicked the door closed, laid his lute in its case, and went to stoke the fire back to fitful, sputtering life._

_The refrain of Geralt’s not-deadness had, Jaskier admitted to himself, worn a little thin in the past year. Yennefer’s network had no news. Eskel’s forays into the south had turned up nothing. Lambert had beaten up not one, not two, but three self-styled bandit leaders, to no avail. Even Jaskier’s insistent inquiries with Redanian intelligence had not borne fruit. No one had seen Geralt of Rivia._

_Jaskier sat heavily on the bed, pulled off his boots, and let them drop to the ground before he flung himself backwards on top of the blankets._

_Geralt could yet be alive. There could be a reasonable explanation for his absence. Perhaps the Nilfgardians were holding him for ransom, and Yennefer would receive a letter any day. Or some mythical beast had put him into an enchanted sleep. Or he’d been recruited by the King of Temeria for a secret mission. And later tonight, he’d burst into Jaskier’s room, dusty from the road, and say, “I’m here, Jaskier! I’m so sorry I left you.”_

_And Jaskier would say, “Where in all the hells have you been?”_

_“I’m back now,” Geralt would say. He’d stride across the room with his broad shoulders and that feline gait and kiss Jaskier until he was breathless._

_On the bed in the empty room, Jaskier slid a hand into his breeches to squeeze his hardening cock._

_“It doesn’t matter now,” Jaskier would say._

_Geralt would grab Jaskier by the front of the shirt and drag him onto the bed, and they’d roll around, groping each other and tearing at any clothes that got in the way. And even if Jaskier’s favorite doublet got torn to shreds, he would not complain, because it was worth any hardship to have Geralt back with him._

_“I never wanted to leave you,” Geralt would say once they were finally naked and pressed together on the bed._

_“Don’t ever do it again,” Jaskier would reply, licking his lips._

_Jaskier stroked his cock a few more times before finishing with a grunt. He caught his issue neatly in his hand and wiped it off on the linens._

_He dragged himself further onto the bed and curled up on his side. He could have put in the effort to seduce one of the eligible prospects downstairs, but they wouldn’t have kept his bed as warm as a witcher. He’d have to get used to sleeping cold again until Geralt got back from… wherever he was._

Jaskier busied himself around the room, rearranging his gear, sewing a frayed spot on the seam of his second-best pair of breeches, and keeping his back to Geralt while he bathed. The last time they’d been here, they’d shared the tub. It was really too small for that, but they hadn’t been as interested in getting clean as they had been in touching each other, so that had been all right. Jaskier resolutely didn’t think about the sounds of gentle splashing in the water behind him, and how Geralt looked naked and wet. At least he hoped there were enough other scents, like the damn lavender in the bathwater, to cover up his simmering arousal.

Jaskier had resorted to mentally reciting the lyrics to “The Deeds of King Vizimir,” first the official ones, then the bawdy ones, then backwards in order to distract himself, when Geralt spoke up from the bath.

“This innkeeper thinks we’re a couple.”

Jaskier looked up from his indifferent sewing--he’d have to redo this repair another time, he thought despairingly--and saw Geralt frowning at him from the bath. “We are-- were a couple,” Jaskier corrected himself. “When we were last here.”

“And I solved some sort of a family issue?”

“You rescued Marta’s... companion from a basilisk,” Jaskier explained. “She couldn’t pay then--it was a lean year, but she vowed you’d always have a room at her inn whenever we traveled through. And we did, frequently, after that. ‘Never pass up a free room,’” Jaskier said, slipping into impersonation, and quickly followed up with. “Something Vesemir always says, apparently.”

“I know. What was it like?”

“The… basilisk?” Jaskier ventured.

“No.” Geralt gestured shortly between them. “Us.”

Jaskier picked at the seam he was sewing and considered his answer. “Easy, once we got the hang of it.”

“The innkeeper,” Geralt said, “She expected us to fuck.”

“We may have been loud on previous occasions,” Jaskier muttered. He glanced down at the bed--why had he chosen to sit on the bed of all places--and then tried to steer his memory away from the nights he’d spent there with Geralt.

“Well.”

“What?” Jaskier looked up.

Geralt looked back at him, intently. “Perhaps we shouldn’t disappoint her.”

Immediately, Jaskier’s heart began to race, and he cursed under his breath that Geralt couldn’t avoid hearing it happen. “Geralt,” he began, and then realized he had no way to continue.

“What?” Geralt kept staring at him, expression flat. His trying-not-to-give-anything-away face.

“I don’t think…” Jaskier’s mind spun and stumbled, and he was reduced to asking again, “What?”

“Yen says you’re telling the truth about us having been together. Eskel says you’re telling the truth. You don’t smell like you’re lying when you say things like that.” Geralt climbed out of the bath, snatched a towel from the back of a chair, and began drying himself aggressively. “Besides, you do want to fuck me.”

“Uh.” Jaskier’s mouth was suddenly quite dry. He swallowed hard. “It might be more accurate to say I want you to want me to fuck you, which is rather a different thing.”

Geralt wrapped the towel loosely around his hips and turned to fix Jaskier with his sharpest glare, his amber eyes practically glowing in the firelight. “Why did you leave Vengerberg?”

“Well.” Here was a question Jaskier knew the answer to, or at least, knew some of the answers he’d given himself while he’d been travelling. “You know, I like to be the center of attention. I couldn’t compete with the dramatics of you miraculously recovering your memory.”

Geralt simply stared at him.

“I know better than to get between you and Yen.”

Geralt kept staring.

“I needed a distraction. A change. If I’d have stayed there watching you two look at each other, love each other…” Jaskier picked at the crooked row of stitches, aware of Geralt’s eyes still on him. “Well, it would have quickly gotten pathetic. I do so try not to be pathetic.”

“So that’s it.” Now Geralt’s eyes had narrowed, in that way they did when he was actually angry, the look that rude villagers usually didn’t notice until it was too late. “You just gave up?”

“No. No no no.” Jaskier raised a finger to protest. “I do not intend to give you up. I hope that’s clear. Unless you want to be given up, in which case, of course--” He let out a quick breath in frustration. He would get command of his words. “The point is that I do still want you to get your memories of me back. Of course I do. And one way to do that would be to be more like the man you should remember.”

“Are you not?” Geralt’s expression had backed off from “murderous,” but was still in the territory of “deeply suspicious.”

“More now than I was a few months ago.” Even Jaskier, never at his most comfortable with self-reflection, could recognize that. “It’s a work in progress.”

“You are… different.” Geralt cocked his head. “I want to see what I’m missing. As you, not as Prince Kacper.” He gave Jaskier a quick up and down look, and said, “I can smell that you want me.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier let out a short, shaky breath. “I am… almost alright, at the moment. You seemed happy, with Yen. If I did anything to hurt you at this point, I don’t think I’d come back from it.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Geralt said with a short, dismissive gesture. “I can stop whatever I don’t want.”

 _But would you?_ Jaskier knew better than to actually ask. “Geralt--”

“I want my memories back,” Geralt said, seemingly a bit more forcefully than he’d meant, to, for he bit back his next words. Then he said, “My body might remember what my mind doesn't.”

“Oh.” Jaskier looked down at his hands. He couldn’t refuse Geralt this, if he wanted it. Well, he could. But he wouldn’t. If Geralt felt he needed to get this out of his system to put what Jaskier had done behind him, that was his right. It wouldn’t be a hardship by any means, though the circumstances weren’t the most auspicious Jaskier had ever enjoyed.

“Is that how it happened with Yennefer?” Jaskier asked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted asking. “It’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”

Geralt turned his head towards the window, and Jaskier saw the rise and fall of his chest, breathing in as if testing the air. “Her scent.”

“Of course.” Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh. “No one else smells of lilac and gooseberries. Unmistakable.”

“I thought… if I had more of you...” Geralt said slowly.

“It might trigger a memory the same way.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt, trying to see past the stern front he presented. No matter how well Jaskier knew him, Geralt had always had the power to surprise him. But Jaskier had gained skill over the years in guessing at the logic that led to some of Geralt’s more questionable decisions. “And you really want to do this?” Jaskier asked sharply. “To enjoy it, not just as some mission you have to endure to get your memories back?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth crept up in an almost-smile. “Yes.”

The fact that Geralt didn’t feel the need to elaborate on that point was strangely reassuring. Jaskier breathed out, then in. “All right. Now?”

“If you like.” Geralt’s tone was casual, but he was instantly more alert, as he was before combat.

“You’re already out of your clothes,” Jaskier pointed out. “Seems convenient.” And now would very conveniently not allow Jaskier additional time to list all the reasons this might be a bad idea.

Geralt stepped slowly towards Jaskier, like a cat hunting a skittish bird. When he reached the bed, he went to his knees before Jaskier. He looked up, waiting until Jaskier nodded, then grabbed Jaskier by the hips and pulled him forward, so he was perched on the edge. With quick, sure motions, Geralt undid Jaskier’s breeches and pushed apart his legs. He leaned in and inhaled, breathing in Jaskier’s scent. It was all so astonishingly familiar that Jaskier almost laughed, but was immediately distracted.

Geralt’s mouth on him was so much more than Jaskier’s faded memories. He exhaled shakily and tossed back his head. Geralt’s mouth was warm, and surprisingly gentle. He had always been good at this. Oh why had he ever considered trying to talk Geralt out of sleeping with him?

Jaskier glanced down at Geralt, his eyes immediately meeting that familiar amber gaze. Then, he saw the contrast: Geralt on his knees, nearly naked, Jaskier almost fully clothed. A bolt of panic struck him, and he pushed at Geralt’s shoulders. “Stop, stop.”

Geralt drew back immediately. His warm hands rested on Jaskier’s thighs, and he watched Jaskier closely, a small frown deepening into the lines of his face.

“Can you just… come up here?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt climbed onto the bed beside Jaskier, unabashedly sniffing at him as he leaned into Jaskier’s space. “Why are you afraid?”

“Not of you,” Jaskier said quickly. He’d never been afraid of Geralt, and wasn’t about to start now. “It just reminded me of…”

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded slowly, looking back at where he’d been kneeling.

“You can have whatever you want, you know,” Jaskier said. “It might be easier for me if you just… took what you wanted.”

Geralt’s frown stayed stubbornly fixed. “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“Believe me, I will enjoy myself if I can be sure you are.”

“You certain?” Geralt asked.

“Which of us remembers more of the sex we’ve had together?”

“Fine.” Geralt’s frown finally eased. He lifted Jaskier by the hips and tossed him down on the bed, far enough back that he sprawled the whole width of the generous mattress, crushing the stray flower petals he hadn’t yet managed to remove. Then Geralt bent his head between Jaskier’s legs and continued his work. He kept a hand pressed low on Jaskier’s belly, pinning him in place.

Jaskier squirmed as his interest in the proceedings rapidly grew. “Geralt,” he panted. “This is going to be over rather quickly if you don’t--”

Geralt pulled his mouth off of Jaskier with a wet noise. “You want me to stop?”

“Aaahhhh.” Jaskier crumped the bedding in his hands. He didn’t want Geralt to ever stop, but if Jaskier came, he would. “At least let me return the favor before you finish me off.”

Geralt sprang into motion again, straddling Jaskier’s shoulders and guiding Jaskier with a hand on the back of his head. Oh, this was definitely worth having his own cock neglected for the moment. Geralt’s cock was heavy on Jaskier’s tongue as it passed his lips. He angled his throat to take as much as he could. This he remembered well, and he hoped Geralt appreciated the ease with which he handled Geralt’s length. That ease was the result of long practice.

Geralt pushed forward only gently, and soon Jaskier had the rhythm he needed to suck with enthusiasm. He tried to reach up, to touch Geralt, to get more, but he found his hands pinned to the mattress above his head, his wrists held in one calloused hand. Good. He wouldn’t forget himself even when his brain was boiling out every coherent thought it had ever contained in the unrelenting heat and pleasure of giving Geralt what he wanted.

Jaskier was starting to drool, but he did not care. He could stay here forever, he could learn how to get by without breathing, if he could have Geralt like this again. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the rhythm of Geralt fucking his mouth, Geralt holding him in place so easily that there was no way Jaskier could ever hurt him.

Jaskier’s eyes flew open when Geralt pulled back, leaving Jaskier gasping for air, bereft. He saw Geralt looking down at him as he stroked a hand lazily over his cock.

“You like that,” Geralt said.

“Well, yes. In general I like sex that you’re enjoying.” Jaskier decided if he were in for a penny, he may as well be in for a pound. “You used to particularly enjoy it when we both used our mouths. At the same time.”

Geralt seemed to be thinking for a moment, and just when Jaskier thought he might have to explain further, Geralt moved. With his knees on either side of Jaskier’s head, Geralt bent low over Jaskier’s body and took Jaskier’s cock into his mouth with one lazy push. Of course. Even without the memories of dozens, perhaps hundreds of iterations of being with Jaskier, Geralt’s witcher senses made him incredibly adept at knowing what felt good for a partner.

At least in this instance, Jaskier had years of experience to make up for his lack of the clairvoyance granted by enhanced senses. He took a moment to swear emphatically before he reached up to guide Geralt’s prick into his mouth. At this angle, it wasn’t as easy to get all of it in, but Jaskier made up for that with all the attention he knew Geralt loved: squeezing his lips around the crown, tonguing quickly at the slit, and rubbing his thumb behind Geralt’s balls.

Geralt, for his part, was taking Jaskier’s cock to the root, expertly swallowing him down. Whether instincts or muscle memory or pure witcher intuition, he knew his work as well as he ever had. Jaskier thrust up, chasing the sensation as Geralt drew his mouth off. The next moment, Geralt had his hands planted against Jaskier’s hips, pinning him down so thoroughly he couldn’t even squirm. He was exactly where Geralt wanted him, and by all the gods, that thought sent heat blooming through Jaskier such that he had to squeeze his eyes shut and concentrate to keep from finishing immediately.

Jaskier couldn’t hold out forever, and he didn’t want to go without Geralt. Though Geralt’s sounds were muffled by his mouthful of cock, Jaskier could still recognize the shortness of breath and tensing of muscles that signalled that Geralt was close. He hummed against Geralt’s cock and pushed his thumb back and up against the spot he knew would undo Geralt.

Sure enough, Geralt spilled into his mouth, thrusting involuntarily so Jaskier had to concentrate on not choking for a moment. But feeling Geralt come down his throat was worth it. As soon as he’d swallowed, he became aware of Geralt sucking ever so lightly at the head of his cock, and he found his climax easily, riding through it as he thrashed weakly in the cage of Geralt’s grip.

Jaskier lay still, panting, as Geralt climbed off of him and sprawled over the remaining width of the bed.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said, with feeling.

Geralt huffed out a breath that may have been a laugh.

Jaskier closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the sleepy contentment for a moment. Then he remembered what this had been for in the first place. He jerked upright and looked at Geralt.

Geralt, with his hands crossed under his head, looked back at Jaskier. He shook his head.

No scent-inspired revelations, or sex so mind-blowing it undid curses. Jaskier didn’t mean any more to Geralt now than he had when they’d started.

“Ah well,” Jaskier said with determined levity. “There’s always next time.”

“Worth trying anyway,” Geralt said quietly. He slid off the bed and got to his feet.

Jaskier curled onto his side, retreating to the far half of the bed. If this hadn’t stimulated Geralt’s memory, Jaskier had no idea what would. Yennefer hadn’t had to work nearly this hard. Perhaps Jaskier should have selected some kind of signature cologne over the past twenty years. He concentrated on slowing his breathing, deliberately in and out at a controlled rhythm, so his agitation wouldn’t be obvious. There was no need to upset Geralt. There hadn’t been much of a chance of this working.

The mattress dipped again and Geralt returned. He coiled an arm around Jaskier and pulled him back against his chest.

“You’re cold.” Geralt slung a leg over Jaskier and held him tightly.

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier muttered, even as his muscles relaxed and he slumped back against Geralt, his body’s long associations taking over.

Geralt didn’t reply to that, but simply dragged the blankets up over them, and doused the room’s candles with a casually-drawn Igni. Jaskier closed his eyes and soaked in the heat of Geralt’s body, the familiar feeling of safety and surety he felt in Geralt’s arms. It wasn’t real, or at least it wasn’t what they used to have, but it felt wonderful all the same.

“There is something about you I remember,” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier back from the brink of sleep. “Like a distant scent on the breeze.”

“Mm. Or like the fading last notes of a song?”

“You’re the poet.”

Without being able to see it in the dark, Jaskier could still feel Geralt’s smile against his shoulder.  
\--

“Did they say just one griffin?” Jaskier asked, eyeing the row of potions Geralt had removed from his saddlebag and set on the ground where he knelt.

Geralt looked over his selections, and had to admit he may have gone overboard. But semi-domesticated creatures could be unpredictable--little fear of humans along with natural instincts warped from captivity. Their habits could be very different from their wild brethren. The distraught villagers and the chagrined menagerie owner seemed to indicate this griffin hadn’t lost its ability to hunt, though in the past weeks its tastes had begun to run towards human flesh, unfortunately.

“Geralt?” Jaskier touched him gently on the shoulder. Since their experience at the Two Hares, Jaskier had developed the tendency to smell of a low-simmering lust at any time of the day or night. It spiked, Geralt had discovered, whenever he touched Jaskier, or on the rare occasions Jaskier touched him. The smell wasn’t objectionable. If Geralt’s senses had been as they were, he imagined it would have had a pleasant orange-ish tinge to it, not the angry red of violent lust.

There was a comforting familiarity to the smell, almost a calming effect, which made little sense. Geralt shouldn’t have had positive associations with the smell of Jaskier’s arousal, and yet.  
This was one of a growing number of items Geralt’s body seemed to remember when his mind did not. Though having sex with Jaskier had brought no sudden return of memories, it had led to Geralt cataloguing all the things his body seemed to know instinctively.

Sucking Jaskier’s cock, for instance, he’d known somehow to slow down when Jaskier started to tremble, using the lightest touch of his lips to coax Jaskier through his climax. And afterwards, with his arms curled around Jaskier, his face pressed to Jaskier’s neck, his hand brushing the soft hair on Jaskier’s belly, he’d felt as comfortable as he had holding Yen.

Geralt knew the rhythm to match when he led Roach beside Jaskier. He knew how the smell of rabbit meat cooking over the fire changed when it was ready for a human to eat, and the ashy scent it took on when he left it too long. He started awake immediately at the small, breathy sounds that meant Jaskier was having a nightmare, and knew somehow to brush his hand softly through Jaskier’s hair until his breath evened out into a more restful sleep.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder tightened. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” Geralt swept up the elixirs in one hand and dumped them back in the bag. “You’re right. It’s only one griffin.”

“That’s not what I--no elixirs at all?” Jaskier knelt beside Geralt on the sandy ground and frowned at Geralt’s bag. “For a griffin, shouldn’t you at least--”

“You know more about killing griffins than I do?” Geralt snapped.

“No.” Jaskier looked evenly at Geralt, and didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “I’ve seen you fight half a dozen griffins, and you’ve always used elixirs before.”

“It’s only one beast.”

“What would Vesemir say?” Jaskier asked, with a mock-severe expression. “The witcher who under-prepares--”

“Only does so once,” Geralt finished, cutting him off. “Yes, I know. Fine.”

Geralt pried the cork out of a bottle and downed one of the elixirs he’d discarded. He waited a moment for the slow warmth of the potion to spread, sharpening his senses and slowing the world around him. “Stay here,” he growled as he drew his silver sword.

“As I always, always do,” said Jaskier brightly.

Geralt advanced quickly towards the canyon where they’d tracked the escaped griffin. Bones--many animal, a few human--lay scattered along the path, and Geralt knew he was headed in the right direction. He heard the creature before he saw her, the wet sound of tearing flesh as she dug into her latest meal. Geralt hoped it was the sheep he’d staked out this morning and not a human victim.

Geralt eased forward through the undergrowth for a closer look. The griffin was just passing adolescence, her adult plumage coming in in full color. She indeed had a sheep carcass pinned with her front talons, and as Geralt watched, ripped off a strip of meat with her powerful beak.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed when he saw the iron collar clamped around her neck, with matted fur and broken feathers sticking out from underneath. Her feet as well had thick metal manacles that trailed lengths of chain. Geralt would have a few choice words for that menagerie owner when he returned to town.

Geralt eyed the steep walls of the canyon, observed the direction of the wind, and considered his angle of attack. A griffin was a formidable foe even on the ground, and if he were careful, he might be able to slay this one before it could take flight and become even deadlier.

Picking his way among the discarded bones and other refuse, Geralt had made it halfway around the griffin’s flank before a pheasant roosting in the undergrowth caught sight of him and burst away in a flurry of chirps and wingbeats. The griffin’s head snapped to the side, and she fixed one golden eye on Geralt.

“Fuck.” He started moving even as the griffin shrieked and cast away the sheep carcass. Geralt raised his sword for a powerful swing as he dodged a swipe of her claw, but the chain dangling from her leg whipped around Geralt, landing with bruising force against his back and tangling with his scabbard. He lunged, and found himself held by the chain looped and tangled around his torso. Geralt was pulled off balance when she drew her leg back, but managed a glancing blow that sliced open her side.

Shrieking in alarm, the griffin beat her wings furiously. Geralt found himself yanked off his feet as she took flight. The chain dug savagely into his skin. He scrambled for a handhold while trying to bring his sword in position to strike. The griffin’s other loose chains were rattling and swinging as she labored to get aloft. One of them whipped against Geralt’s temple, knocking his head back.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t breathe. Had to be the chain around his chest. He should know what to do. He wasn’t panicking. He could handle this easily. The clanking of the metal seemed to fill his ears, louder than the griffin’s enraged cries. He could smell his own blood, a pattern of angry red lines. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers were going numb, loosening his grip on his sword hilt. He couldn’t move.

“Hey, you! Come down here and fight like a monster!”

Geralt’s eyes snapped open in time to see the griffin backwing with a surprised squawk as a stone pinged off her beak.

“Your mother was a mangy crow! Your father was an inbred alley cat! You couldn’t catch a sheep if it walked right into your… beak!”

Jaskier stood in a clearing below the griffin, an unmistakable target in a bright yellow doublet. He threw another stone that thudded into the fluffed up feathers of the griffin’s chest.

“What’s the matter, you scared? You lazy ball of fur, dingy-feathered--agh!”

The griffin shrieked, folded her wings, and dove. Jaskier turned and sprinted for the trees. Geralt twisted in his bonds to position his sword upwards against the griffin’s breast.

The impact of the landing drove his sword through bone and into the griffin’s heart. She promptly collapsed on top of Geralt, squeezing any remaining breath from his lungs.

“Geralt? Geralt!”

Jaskier shoved the griffin’s enormous wing off of Geralt. With one swift glance, he took in the chain that had Geralt trapped. In a few moments his deft fingers had the metal links untangled from Geralt’s gear, leaving enough slack for him to draw in a ragged breath. He lay gasping for a few minutes while Jaskier finished working him free of the tangled mass of dead griffin.

“In one piece?” Jaskier asked once Geralt had managed to sit up.

Geralt had managed to get his breathing under control, and if his heart rate wasn’t as slow as it usually was, at least it didn’t sound so loud in his ears. He gave Jaskier a stern look. “You said you’d stay put.”

Jaskier shrugged, unrepentant. “You probably don’t remember this, but I never do.”

_Geralt rolled his shoulder, testing out the range of motion. One of the drowners he’d taken out today had tried their best to rip his arm from his body, and the muscles and tendons there were still knitting back together. Witcher healing did its work quickly, but a long soak in a hot bath would tide him over until the pain was gone._

_Geralt carried a fresh change of clothes with him as he headed towards the inn’s rather utilitarian bathhouse, which stood in its own ramshackle building on the far side of the inn’s courtyard. He’d be perfectly fine by the time he made it back to Vengerberg. There would be no need to even mention the injury to Jaskier or Yen. He had other plans for their reunion._

_When he was halfway across the courtyard, he heard a breathy sound. He stopped. In the near dark of the courtyard, he could see a woman in an apron--a kitchen maid, perhaps--backed against the wall of the stable and crying softly as a much-larger man loomed over her. Geralt sighed. He just wanted his warm bath. Then the girl’s sobs curdled into a wretched scream, choked off almost immediately by a hand over her mouth, and Geralt was in motion. His swords were back in his room, but he didn’t need weapons to deal with one belligerent and probably drunk human._

_As Geralt reached out to grab the man, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from the side. He turned to see a man with a sword raised, running towards him. Geralt spun out of the way, but as he did, he heard the clink of metal on metal behind him. He raised his hand to block the blow. A length of chain hit his left arm and wrapped twice around it._

_He pivoted on his heel and pulled, and the man holding the other end of the chain lost his feet and fell with a yelp. Geralt raised his right hand towards the three men approaching from that side and made the sign of Aard, but nothing happened. He glanced down at the chain wrapping his arm, and noted its dark blue hue. Dimeritium._

_Geralt grabbed at the end of the chain, but another caught his right arm. This time two men had hold of the end, braced firmly to avoid being pulled down by Geralt’s efforts. Geralt turned his back to them and kicked at the men approaching from that direction, catching the nearest one in the knee. The man sank to his ground with an agonized scream._

_The men holding the chain hauled, dragging Geralt off balance. He turned quickly to brace himself, only to be greeted with the searing punch of a crossbow bolt in the belly. He staggered, but didn’t go down. He had to stay on his feet._

_Three quick steps towards the men holding the chain had them falling backwards with the unexpected slack. Geralt yanked the crossbow bolt out of his stomach and slammed it through the throat of the first prone man. He pulled it back out with a gush of blood, and turned to slash at the eyes of the second man, who’d managed to struggle to his knees. As that man fell back, screaming, Geralt turned to look for other foes._

_He had only a few seconds before the next group of attackers would be on him. The ragged wound in his belly no longer burned, which meant Geralt needed to hurry. Numbness could mean severe blood loss or perhaps poison: nothing good, in any case. He managed to free his left arm from the chains, then had to dodge the attacks of an oncoming swordsman. He leaned out of the way of the thrust, then bound the blade with the loose chain and dragged it out of the man’s hands. Then Geralt had a sword, a rather nice one, good, sharp steel, to parry the next two attackers._

_“Watch his face,” a man called from behind Geralt. “We’re not to harm his face.”_

_Geralt heard the whistle of another crossbow bolt and dodged. One of his attackers took the bolt in the chest and stumbled backwards with a shocked expression. Geralt caught the downswing of the next attacker’s axe with his borrowed sword, and fought to hold his position. The dimeritium chains were having their effect, sending nausea clawing up Geralt’s throat. Geralt fought it down as he slammed his head forward to break the axe-man’s nose. That provided enough distraction for Geralt to push the axe back into the man’s throat._

_Another crossbow bolt hit Geralt in the back of the thigh hard enough to buckle his leg. On his hands and knees in the dirt of the courtyard, he felt the cold touch of poison radiating from a second point. He braced the sword against the ground to push himself up, but was borne down again by a sudden heavy weight: a net, its edges anchored with stones, tangled his limbs. Geralt tore at the strands of the net, but they did not break. The glint of the moonlight showed thin threads of metal woven into the heavy hemp: more dimeritium._

_The sword was wrested out of Geralt’s hands as his fingers started to go numb, and he slumped to the ground, head spinning. He looked up to see the men who’d attacked him standing in a wary circle, their weapons still raised. Beyond them, the kitchen maid Geralt had first seen was straightening her skirts and accepting a purse from one of the men that clinked promisingly._

Good for her, _Geralt thought somewhat fuzzily._

_“You sure that’ll hold him? You saw what he did with no weapons at all."_

“ _Poison’s specially formulated for a witcher. See, he’s almost out already.”_

_“Lord Iwen’ll be pleased. This one’s a proper brute.”_

_“Go on, get the horses.”_

_Geralt looked up at the stars, and vaguely thought something was wrong with the constellations. Then there was only darkness._

Jaskier handled everything. He dug the White Honey out of Geralt’s bag and shoved it into his hands. He cut off the griffin’s head with Geralt’s steel sword and a great deal of badly coordinated hacking. He led Roach to where Geralt lay and gave her the command to kneel down so Geralt could drag himself on to her back. He made sure Geralt was secure in the saddle before leading her back towards town, and all of this before Geralt could gather himself enough to realize he didn’t _need_ all this help. He could have done all of that on his own, if he’d just waited long enough for his head to stop spinning and his hands to stop shaking and for an end to the sharp pains that came with every breath.

“You don’t need to do all this,” Geralt said.

Jaskier looked up from where he was leading Roach and his palfrey. “You always say that. No matter how many times I do.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Geralt asked. He wasn’t sure if his bafflement was the result of a probable head injury or just Jaskier’s mystifying behavior.

“Because you don’t have to do everything on your own.”

When they reached the inn where they’d left their things, Jaskier managed handing the horses over to the hostler, sending a kitchen boy running off to the alderman with the griffin head in a burlap sack, ordering a bath and some food, and hustling Geralt upstairs to their room.

People responded to him so easily, Geralt noticed. He had a combination of brash confidence and sincere charm that seemed to make everyone willing to oblige. Had he always been that adept at navigating people, easy with the world as Geralt had never been? Wherever they went, someone greeted the “famous bard” by name. Even people who'd never heard of him seemed to be charmed by his friendly manners and warm, effusive words.

“How do you do that?” Geralt asked, when he was settled in the bath and Jaskier, for some reason, was washing his hair.

“It’s all in the wrists.”

“How do you get people to do what you want like that?” Geralt asked impatiently.

“I wasn’t always this eloquent. I have alienated plenty of people, Geralt. Plenty.” Jaskier laughed as he scratched at Geralt’s scalp. “Many’s the time you’ve saved me from a hiding. Angry spouses, jealous rivals, and so on. I had to learn to be more diplomatic, if I wanted to be of any use to you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt laid his head back against the side of the tub and let Jaskier continue his ministrations. Even if Jaskier hadn’t always been so silver-tongued, why in all the spheres would Jaskier have ended up with a taciturn, friendless witcher? It made no sense.

Yennefer, Geralt could almost understand. She had a prickly exterior, and her powers intimidated most people. A witcher who wasn’t afraid of her and wouldn’t break with a little hard use was an understandable choice. And having a witcher as an ally likely gained her some respect, or at least fear, from her fellow sorcerers.

Jaskier, however, could have had some pretty courtier or handsome knight. Someone who would accompany him to musical exhibitions and balls, who could move in the right social circles and hobnob with the kind of nobility that commissioned bardic work for exorbitant fees. Someone who wasn’t a pariah. There had to be a reason for it.

“Why were you with me? What’s in it for you?” Geralt tilted his head up to look at Jaskier. “Surely you got all the song material you needed years ago.”

“Why…” Jaskier stared back at him, then said in a small voice, “Because I love you.”

“Why?” Geralt sat up, pulling his head away from Jaskier’s touch, and turned around in the tub so he could look Jaskier in the face. “Tell me why.”

“I…” Jaskier stared at him, mouth open. He swallowed, then tried, “Geralt...”

“You could have someone who could be in your world. Who would be useful to you.”

“Oh, useful.” Jaskier snatched up the towel from the back of his chair and roughly wiped off his hands. “Is that what I was meant to consider? Who would be ‘useful’ to me?”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said slowly and clearly. He didn’t understand why Jaskier acted as if it were ridiculous to consider that any kind of barrier. “Not someone you’d want to take to a court function.”

“Oh ho ho, you would be surprised,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. “But I don’t need someone to take me to court, or to fashionable balls. I didn’t want a wife who would raise my social status. Did you know that I was a viscount? Yes, twelfth Viscount de Lettenhove, disinherited now, of course, but if I’d wanted a position at court, I could have had it.” Jaskier spread his hands pleadingly. “What have I ever done to make you think I’d want that?”

“Then what do you want?” Geralt demanded.

“You, obviously!” Jaskier said. “A generous, frighteningly competent, witty--yes, witty--man who does what he thinks is right even in fairly ludicrous situations no one else would attempt to salvage. You made me want to be more than I was when I met you. I didn’t follow you for song fodder but because being around you made my heart sing, which yes, I know, is a cliche, but sometimes that’s love, and anyway, you already knew I was a bard.”

Geralt blinked at Jaskier. His face was flushed with emotion, and his heartbeat was fast, but steady. Not lying, then. Geralt said faintly, “Right.”

“Can I finish?” Jaskier waved a hand at Geralt’s head. “That lavender stuff is dreadfully difficult to get out of your hair if you let it dry.”

Geralt settled back against the edge of the tub and put his head into Jaskier’s hands. He closed his eyes as Jaskier worked, trying on the idea that Jaskier might in fact enjoy being around Geralt for his own sake. The concept was a strange one, but Jaskier’s behavior so far had been remarkably consistent. Before he lost his memories, it seemed Geralt really had somehow earned Jaskier’s affections. And if Geralt’s memories didn’t come back, perhaps it would be worth trying to rebuild what he’d had with this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for your wonderful support and comments throughout this! Not much more to go now!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! I know it's been a long wait for the wrap-up to this series. Just a bit further to go now! Many thanks to hobbitdragon and jaunechat for their continued assistance and cheerleading.

They stayed an extra day at the inn while Geralt was still moving stiffly and gingerly from whatever bones had been cracked or joints wrenched that he wouldn’t tell Jaskier about. Jaskier had played a few hours in the common room that night, more to give Geralt some time alone than for the coin, and afterwards brought supper up to the room for them to share. Geralt had been quieter than usual after their conversation during his bath, and Jaskier was determined not to pry. He’d explained his feelings, and Geralt could do with that information as he wished. 

On the second day, Geralt insisted that Jaskier was fussing unnecessarily and that he was perfectly fit for travel. But as Roach and Pegasus walked side by side down the road, Jaskier’s thoughts began to worry away at him. Geralt had spoken little as they’d left the inn behind, and Jaskier had let his unanswered observations dwindle into silence. He could take some quiet time to compose, or at least draft some lyrics. Something about the chained beast, trapping her prey as she’d been trapped. He could work in some kind of a metaphor there. 

The sun had passed its zenith before Jaskier grew concerned about the silence. “When we used to travel together you never stayed quiet this long. I could at least get a hmm out of you.”

“When I travel alone, I’m silent all day.”

“Sounds tedious. Is this--” Jaskier waved a hand to encompass Geralt’s entire gloomy disposition--”regular brooding, or brooding on a particular topic?”

Geralt’s eyes cut sideways towards Jaskier, but he didn’t answer until they’d gone at least another mile. “If you hadn’t been there, with the griffin, I would have died.”

“I don’t know about that. You usually pull these things out in the end.” Jaskier could think of a dozen instances when he thought Geralt was certain to be killed, but in later years he’d simply given up thinking there was any monster Geralt couldn’t best. “Like the time--”

“No,” Geralt said firmly. “I would have died. I froze. I couldn’t move.”

“Well, you did receive a nasty head wound.”

“That’s not why.” Geralt shifted in the saddle, looking away into the trees. “I was afraid. It felt like being… back there.”

“I see,” Jaskier said. This was another demonstration of the gaps in Jaskier’s knowledge about this Geralt; he would have said he knew every variation on Geralt’s bouts of self-recrimination, but this was different. Geralt had been unusually unresponsive in the wake of dealing with the griffin. Yes, he’d been injured, but he hadn’t performed his usual protests of being fine and grumbling at Jaskier to leave him be. In retrospect, that should have clued Jaskier in. “Thankfully, you didn’t die.”

“This time. What’s to stop that from happening again, when I’m fighting something even more dangerous than a griffin?” Geralt’s voice sounded dull, hopeless. “I can’t always count on you to be there.”

“Yes, you could,” Jaskier said immediately. He shook his head. “Not the point. These things take time, Geralt.”

“Do they?” Geralt glared at him, and the sight was strangely encouraging. ”I have my sight back. I’m healed. I should be able to do everything I could before.”

“That seems unrealistic.”

“Witchers get hurt. They heal. They go back to the Path. That’s how it has to be.”

“Always?” Jaskier asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Unless they die,” Geralt said, seemingly satisfied to have so morose an answer to provide.

“Well, I know for a fact Eskel’s left side guard is weaker because he favors his right. I know because Vesemir yells it at him at least twice a week during winter training. Still subconsciously defending himself from a crippling blow how many years later?” Jaskier paused, but when Geralt didn’t respond, he went on. “And Lambert didn’t cast Igni for a year after he was trapped in that burning barn. The burns healed without much scarring, but it was a long time before he could stand to be around fire magic.”

“Hmm.” 

If that response wasn’t the most encouraging, at least Geralt didn’t deny the truth of what Jaskier had said. “You were gone for three years. Of course it’s going to take time.”

“I thought I could be a witcher again.” 

Geralt said it so quietly Jaskier almost didn’t hear him. His stomach clenched to hear the tone of despair. “Did the alderman in that village not just pay you for killing a griffin? You _are_ a witcher.”

Geralt fell silent without even an ambiguous hum to acknowledge Jaskier’s point. Then he sat up straighter in his saddle, and Roach’s ears flicked. After a moment, Jaskier heard it, too: a wagon and some riders on the road, headed towards them. No point in trying to continue a conversation with Geralt until the strangers had passed. But continue it Jaskier would. Now that he knew Geralt’s brooding was deeper than the usual kind, he was determined to bring Geralt out of it.

Geralt and Jaskier both steered their mounts to the side of the road, Jaskier bringing Pegasus in behind Roach to allow the oncoming traffic to pass. Jaskier prepared to be charming and effusive. Often, catching sight of a witcher put travelers on edge, but then seeing Jaskier, clearly harmless, usually eased their concerns.

The approaching party appeared to be merchants. Two armed men on horseback led the group, followed by a team of horses pulling a heavy, enclosed wagon, then four more mounted guards. Must have been valuable goods they were transporting.

“Afternoon,” Jaskier said as they rode past.

The man driving the wagon, and the man sitting next to him on the box, whose clothes were of higher quality, simply stared, and did not return the greeting.

“Well,” Jaskier muttered as he steered Pegasus back onto the road. “They weren’t the friendliest--”

“Pardon me, good sir.” Geralt had turned Roach around, and was walking her towards the front of the wagon.

Jaskier pulled Pegasus to a stop and twisted in his saddle to watch. The guards had gone tense and alert, and the two furthest back were watching Jaskier with wary hostility. He tried to look innocent and charming, though he shifted his hand on the reins to be closer to the throwing knife in his belt.

“What do you want?” the merchant asked, glaring down at Geralt as if he were a beggar.

“I’m only a humble witcher, but I’ve come into quite a bit of coin recently,” Geralt said, in the overly solicitous tone he used with nobles who’d insulted him. “I’m in the market for the kind of product I believe you might be able to sell me.”

“You couldn’t afford our merchandise, witcher.” The merchant made the word sound like a curse.

“My coin spends as well as any other man’s. See?” Geralt slowly drew out a purse bulging with coins from his saddlebag and tossed it to the merchant. 

The merchant peeked inside and raised an eyebrow. “We may be able to arrange something. What did you have in mind?”

“A man like me has certain appetites.” Geralt edged Roach closer, and cast a quick glance back at the wagon. “Don’t need anything fancy, just something that will take a little rough use.”

“Mm.” The man looked at the purse again, then back at Geralt. “We may have just the thing. Raul, go bring out that new one, from Skellige.”

“Aye, sir,” called one of the guardsmen at the rear of the wagon. He dismounted and fumbled in his pouch. Only then did Jaskier notice the lock on the wagon door. But just as the guard had drawn out the jingling ring of keys, a scream sounded from the front of the wagon. Jaskier turned to see one of the guardsmen falling from his saddle while Geralt wrenched his sword free of the second one’s chest. 

“Well, that’s done it,” Jaskier muttered. He turned Pegasus and drew a throwing dagger, but stayed well back as he watched the chaos.

The merchant was shouting frantically, and the drover was trying to whip the horses on. Geralt had already cut the traces, and the horses ran ahead, dragging the drover off the box by the reins and trampling the fallen guards as they left the wagon behind.

The three still-mounted men spurred their horses towards Geralt, but couldn’t work up much speed maneuvering around the cart. Geralt dispatched them with brutal efficiency, sending blood spraying across the side of the wagon. The fourth guard had dropped the keyring and was trying to re-mount his horse when Geralt steered Roach around the wagon, grabbed the man from behind by his hair, and slid his sword across his throat. Geralt let go, and the man’s body toppled.

The merchant had climbed down from the box and now held up his hands as Geralt stalked towards him. “Spare me, good sir. I have gold. I can--”

Geralt struck out with a powerful blow that severed the man’s head from his body and sent it spinning into the ditch at the side of the road. Pegasus whinnied and backed, nervous at the smell of blood and the cries of the guardsman’s agitated mounts. Jaskier reined the horse in and petted his neck. Whatever danger there had been was past now.

“All right?” Geralt was wiping his blade down with a cloth before returning it to its sheath.

Jaskier nodded mutely. 

Geralt said, “I’m going to get the horses,” turned Roach’s head down the road, and cantered off.

“But… Geralt?” Jaskier said weakly as he watched them disappear around a bend in the road. “What…?” He spent a few moments staring after Geralt before he squared his shoulders and pushed down his gorge. He’d seen the aftermath of Geralt’s violence before, but a group of humans was a departure. Not that he’d never seen Geralt kill a man. Of course he had. But never a group of strangers that hadn’t done anything to them. The ruthless efficiency had perhaps been a bit of a shock. He’d forgotten that charnel-house stink of slaughtered men.

Geralt had to have a reason, though. However much he’d changed, he’d never kill humans unprovoked, of that much Jaskier was sure. Whatever the legend, Geralt was no Butcher. But Jaskier wasn’t likely to learn what this was all about until Geralt returned.

Jaskier dismounted and tied Pegasus to a branch on a grassy verge so he could graze, then looked around at the quiet tableau: corpses, corpses, several nervous horses, and one solidly-built wagon. Cautiously, he picked his way through the bodies to reach the back of the wagon. The key ring was lying in the dusty road. Jaskier picked it up and tried several keys in the lock before one turned. He swung open the door of the wagon. A dozen pairs of eyes stared back at him from the dark.

_Yennefer skirted around a puddle and glared at the muddy street as if it had personally offended her._

_“I told you that you didn’t have to come,” Jaskier said, chivalrously offering his arm to help her over the next puddle._

_“Please.” Yennefer briefly took his arm to steady herself, then strode onward, leaving Jaskier to scramble in her wake. “These people would never believe you’re a customer.”_

_“I _am_ a trained performer,” Jaskier felt compelled to point out._

_“There are some things that just aren’t in your nature, Julian,” she said brusquely. “Which house?”_

_“It’s that one.” Jaskier jerked his chin at a forbidding-looking thatched-roof building looming between two smaller neighbors on the narrow street. “Let me remind you, I’m the one who tracked these people down.”_

_“For which I already said thank you. The amount of gossip you consume is truly impressive.” Yennefer patted his arm. “Now be a good lad and let me do the talking.”_

_When they knocked, a servant led them to a small reception room and left them waiting. The place wasn’t strewn with chains or spattered with blood, Jaskier was half surprised to note. It looked much the same as any home of a reasonably affluent merchant Jaskier had visited. Of course, he was more of an expert on bedrooms than reception rooms._

_Vondel, the proprietor of Vondel and Sons Importing, arrived shortly with two armed guards at his back. That, Jaskier felt certain, was not typical of a prosperous merchant._

_“Welcome to my home,” he said with a shallow bow. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”_

_“I’m a friend of Millegarda.” Yennefer extended her hand and let the man kiss it, though Jaskier didn’t miss the slight sneer that crossed her face when he couldn’t see her. “She told me that you may have some supplies I need.”_

_“Ah.” Vondel’s bushy eyebrows went up. “I’ve known Millegarda a long time. I’ve always enjoyed doing business with her.”_

_“Good. Then you won’t mind doing business with me.”_

_Vondel hesitated, but, taking in the unmistakable beauty and aura of power that marked Yennefer as a sorceress, he seemed reluctant to argue. “Perhaps if the lady tells me what she has in mind.”_

_“A speciality item,” Yennefer said. “I’ve heard you’re the man to procure such things. I’m interested in doing certain magical experiments that would require the participation of a witcher.”_

_Vondel stared at her a moment, then barked out a laugh. “Ma’am. I appreciate your faith in my abilities. But no one could hope to keep a creature such as a witcher. The effort and expense in obtaining one would itself be prohibitive. And even then you’d have no chance of taming the blasted thing. You may as well try to tame a mountain troll. Now, if it were a fighter you were after, I have some fine, strong--”_

_“No, I have all the strength I need. Pity.” Yennefer heaved a deep sigh.” You two,” she said, waving at the armed men behind Vondel. “Go to the cellar and release all the prisoners you have, then strip naked and walk to the town square. You, sir, may empty your hiding places of all your coin, give them to the people these men have freed, and allow them to take anything they like from the house. When they’ve all gone, you may light this place on fire and burn with it.”_

_“Yen!” Jaskier protested._

_“What?” She whirled on him, clearly unhappy with the interruption._

_“A fire could raze half the city,” he said, trying for a stern tone, but landing somewhere closer to wheedling. “Be sensible.”_

_“Fine.” Yennefer turned back to Vondel. “After they’ve gone, present yourself to the magistrate and confess all the details of your trade and the names of every contact involved.”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” Vondel said blankly, and bowed._

_“You believe him?” Jaskier asked as he watched the man shuffle off._

_“He wasn’t lying. His surface thoughts were extremely easy to read. Weak-willed fool.”_

_“Well. That’s that.” Jaskier clenched his teeth against the wave of disappointment that threatened to knock him over. He wouldn’t give up. “There might be someone else in the trade who--”_

_“Julian.” Yennefer fixed him with an unfathomable violet gaze. “You heard what he said. Think about it. What would it take to keep Geralt a captive and make him be of any use?”_

_The image came too easily to mind: Geralt beaten, tortured, half dead. But even then he would fight, stubborn bastard that he was. They’d have to break him out of all recognition. Jaskier couldn’t imagine a slaver getting any satisfaction out of him. Geralt would sooner die._

_“Even if the information you got is correct, which is deeply questionable, they couldn’t have kept him.” Yennefer’s hand was on Jaskier’s arm, gentle and comforting. He hated the pity in her voice. ”They would have had to kill him.”_

_“He’s not dead,” Jaskier croaked. He swallowed and said again, more strongly, “He’s not.”_

_“Come along.” Yennefer led him by the hand back out the way they’d come and down the street away from the centre of town. “You did the right thing to bring me what you heard. This wasn’t a total waste.”_

_“No, not for them.” Jaskier glanced over his shoulder to see a few ragged figures beginning to emerge from the house._

_“Are you staying in Roggeveen? Yennefer asked abruptly._

_“Yes. I have a room at the Stag’s Head. Would you--”_

_“No. I’ve business back in Vengerberg.” She stopped and made a sharp gesture. A glimmering portal materialized right there in the street. “Goodbye.” She walked towards the portal, then paused and turned her head. “I’m glad to see you well, Julian.” Then she stepped through, and the portal vanished behind her._

Jaskier glanced over at Roach and saw Geralt still staring straight ahead at the road, not doing his usual watchful scanning of their surroundings. If Jaskier thought this morning’s ride had been morose, he needed to readjust his sense of proportion. 

Geralt hadn’t spoken more than a few words since they’d parted ways with the captives they’d freed, though they’d ridden several hours. One of the women who’d been chained in the wagon, a stocky, brown-eyed girl who held the cudgel she’d taken from a corpse with evident familiarity, had told Jaskier she planned to lead her fellow ex-captives to a village a few days’ walk to the north, where she had family. They’d taken the horses and everything of worth or utility from their captors. Jaskier had seen them off while Geralt had dragged the corpses into a pile on the side of the road and blasted them with an emphatic Igni until they were reduced to ash. Geralt had mounted up without a word and waited for Jaskier to join him before heading south. 

Geralt had begun to look a bit less tense and haunted as the sun began to sink behind the trees, so Jaskier figured it was about time to coax some words out of him. Talking would be better for him than brooding at this point, in Jaskier’s experience. If left unchecked, Geralt might just keep riding all night.

“How did you know?” Jaskier asked. “That they were slave traders, I mean?”

Geralt looked over at him sharply, as if he hadn’t realized Jaskier was there. Then he turned his attention back to the road. “The smell. It was familiar. Then I could hear them. Whispering. Telling each other it would be all right. It wouldn’t have been all right.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Jaskier said softly. “It might now, though.”

“Maybe.” Geralt didn’t sound optimistic. “Or maybe the memory of it will plague them all their days and they’ll never be who they were again.”

“None of us can be the people we once were,” Jaskier said. “Life changes us. The world changes us. Other people change us. I’m different than I was before you disappeared.”

“How so?” Geralt asked.

“I’m capable of things now that I wouldn’t have thought I could do. That no one thought I could do.” Not that Jaskier had been proud to discover the sort of things he’d been capable of, but they’d served their purpose. “And my knees hurt more after a day of riding.”

That coaxed a twitch of the lips that was the barest of steps towards a smile. Geralt asked, “Am I different?”

“In some ways.” Jaskier looked at him, considering. His hair was still a bit too short, but on Roach, with his swords on his back, Geralt looked quite like himself. “In the fundamental ways, you’re the same. Most everything I know about you still holds true.”

“And what do you know about me?” Geralt eyed him with what might have been suspicion.

“That Vesemir never succeeded in scolding the knight out of you.”

Geralt huffed. “Some knight. I did just kill eight men.”

“Well.” There was no arguing that. Jaskier still had streaks of blood on his boots. “They were terrible men.”

“Would I have done that? The me you knew before. The one you loved.”

“I... “ _You’re the one I love, idiot,_ Jaskier thought. The darkening forest slid by as he considered the question. So often, it was easy to forget that this Geralt was different. He was so much the same in many ways, but then, on days like today, parts of him still fit oddly against the image in Jaskier’s memory. Finally, Jaskier said, “You still might have done it, but you would have felt worse about it. So this is an improvement, I’d say.”

“How do you know how I feel?” Geralt asked, scowling.

Well, this Jaskier felt qualified to answer. “Your self-hatred spiral usually turns outwards before now. You’d have picked a fight with me, or demanded that we stop and camp so you could work out your frustration by chopping wood or brushing Roach within an inch of her life. But this inward turn is different. If I had to guess, I’d say you were brooding about why you don’t feel worse.”

Geralt stared at him. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“It’s not magic.”

“Are you--”

"It's not fair. I'm cheating.” Jaskier spread his hands in contrition. “I know you about as well as it is possible to know a person. I know what you like and what you want. You would never tell me what you felt, so I’ve had to work it out through meticulous observation over the years. I’ve come to understand your completely backwards logic, which means I have figured out how to get you to do what I want you to about sixty percent of the time, which is not as good as Yennefer’s record, but still very, very impressive. I'm excellent at interpreting your nonverbal whatnot, and I can predict what you'll do in most situations with a high degree of accuracy. So no, it’s not magic, but it’s not really fair, either." 

Geralt gave Jaskie a long look, then said, “That’s not cheating. Even if it does put me at a disadvantage. I can re-learn what I used to know, eventually.”

“You don’t have to.” Something in Jaskier’s heart stuttered when he thought of Geralt trying to learn him as he was now, not the exuberant youth he’d been, but the tired and incredibly flawed cynic of a bard. “That seems like a lot of effort.”

“I have time,” Geralt said simply. As if he didn’t have other things to do, other people he’d rather be with. As if he wouldn’t be happier with Yennefer than trying to unearth the corpse of what he’d once felt for Jaskier.

“You don’t have to love me back, you know,” Jaskier blurted, then pressed his lips together hard. 

“Excuse me?” Geralt sounded genuinely confused.

“If your memories don’t come back,” Jaskier clarified. “As you said, you’re different now. You’re not stuck doing everything the way you did before. It took so long for us to work the first time around, I don’t think either of us has time to go through the entire process again. I don’t want you to feel obligated to keep trying.”

“I don’t feel...obligated.” Geralt frowned at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Jaskier said in alarm. Then he took a deep breath and said, “No. But. It was enough of a stretch for you to want the me of twenty years ago, who was younger, more handsome, and far more optimistic. Everyone’s been telling you you should care about me, but perhaps the bizarre and fortuitous combination of traits that caught your attention in the first place doesn’t exist anymore. I’m just…” He waved a hand to encompass his body, “this, now.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier long enough that Roach turned her head back to see what the problem was, and Geralt had to dig in his heels to keep her moving. Then he asked, “What would the you of twenty years ago think of what I did to those men?”

“He may have fainted,” Jaskier said, thinking. “At the least, he would have been shocked and appalled. Would be congratulating himself on being in the midst of such a grand adventure. Perhaps he’d be composing a new song in his head. The little ninny. Definitely would have been asking you questions for the past several hours.”

“But that’s not how you reacted today.”

“No.” It hadn’t occurred to Jaskier that this incident might be fodder for a song, and he didn’t think that was a result of his recent compositional dry spell. “I was afraid, but not for long. I was worried about what would happen, especially if one of the dead men was someone important. And I was so damn proud of you. It could only have been better if those had been the people that hurt you.”

“No,” Geralt said. “They died too fast.” He rode in silence for another half mile, and said, “I don’t remember that other you, but I don’t mind the current version.”

“Oh.” Jaskier stared at him, face flushing. “All right.” They rode on in silence, with Jaskier daring to glance over at Geralt every few moments to make certain he was real, and truly there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go, folks! Thanks for all your supportive comments and such so far. Y'all are wonderful. You're also welcome to come squee with me [on Tumblr](https://brighteyedjill.tumblr.com/). Stay safe out there!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to hobbitdragon and jaunechat for beta assistance and cheerleading.

They rode most of the night, relying on Geralt’s keen vision to keep the horses on the road. Roach was certainly disgruntled at the choice, but Geralt felt that he owed Jaskier a stop at an inn after that fiasco. He also desperately wanted a bath. The flecks of blood the slavers’ deaths had left on him felt more disgusting than a dunking in selkimore guts. And every time Geralt closed his eyes, he felt the hard press of manacles against his skin, heard the clank of chains as they held him down, smelled the blood and spend left on him after a night entertaining Lord Iwen’s guests. 

They reached a town with a handsome inn just a few hours before dawn.The stable boy, yawning, took their mounts and roused the landlord, whose wrath at being woken was mitigated somewhat by the coin Geralt gave him in exchange for a room key. It wasn’t long before the cook and her assistants were up and about in the kitchen, so Geralt was able to acquire some breakfast and order a bath. Jaskier, meanwhile, collapsed into the room’s large bed and fell directly to sleep. He’d been tired, of course, but Geralt still was pleased to see that Jaskier _could_ sleep in Geralt’s presence, despite what he’d recently seen. After a lengthy bath, scouring himself thoroughly to rid himself of any lingering stench of slaver, Geralt made space for himself tucked up against Jaskier’s back and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, the cool light of early evening filtered through the windows. Jaskier sat in a chair next to the room’s tiny, rough-hewn table with his lute on his lap and a stack of parchment on which he was scribbling. A few plates, heaped with food, shared space on the table with two tankards of ale. Geralt was surprised by the surge of fondness the scene evoked. It looked comfortable, and somehow familiar.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Jaskier gave him a startlingly warm smile and gestured to the plates. “I brought up supper. Eat something.”

“You’re not playing downstairs?” Geralt propped himself up against the headboard and stretched. The town was a decent size and the clientele respectable. There was certainly plenty of coin to be made. 

“Not without a full night’s sleep. I’m not as young as I used to be, and my adoring audiences expect a lark, not a crow,” Jaskier said with a rueful smile. “Besides, I’m on a roll. Come on, have something to eat.”

Geralt extracted himself from the tangled linens and pulled on some clothes while Jaskier returned to his work. Jaskier’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as his hand raced over the parchment. Then he stopped, plucked a few notes on his lute, made a considering noise, and went back to writing. 

Geralt dropped into the other chair at the table and twisted off a hunk of bread from the half-eaten loaf as he watched Jaskier scribble and mutter, seemingly undisturbed by Geralt’s presence. Geralt wondered if Jaskier would be doing the same if he were here on his own. But no, he would likely be entertaining the crowd downstairs and earning some coin, because Jaskier wouldn’t have spontaneously murdered eight petty slavers and then ridden almost all night trying to outrun the memories their deaths had stirred. 

Jaskier had been used to travelling with Geralt, back when he’d been a different man. But travelling with this version of Geralt, a volatile witcher who could barely defend himself on a simple contract, and who had a propensity to launch unprovoked attacks against travellers on the road, might be more than he had bargained for. 

“Where would you be going next?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier froze, then looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm and fingers going white gripping his quill. “You want to… part ways?” 

“Not what I meant,” Geralt said. “If I weren't with you, where would you have been going?”

“Well.” Jaskier cleared this throat. “I could head to Velen, to the bardic competition at the harvest festival there. Though that's gotten a bit less novel since I beat Valdo Marx five years in a row. After a point it just feels mean-spirited. Not that that’s stopped me before,” he admitted. “Otherwise, I could travel through some of the villages along the Pontar that string out their festivals across a few weeks so that the merchants can go to each one. None of them would attract much of a festival on their own otherwise.”

Geralt didn’t go out of his way to avoid festivals, the way some witchers did. There was something pleasant about being not the most remarkable thing in a town. And as he recalled, such events did attract musicians, though he understood those to be rough-hewn traveling troubadours, not court bards. “What would you do there?” Geralt asked.

“Try out new material. Audiences at a harvest festival are usually well in their cups, and very ready to be pleased. It's a good place to experiment with a sympathetic audience.” He gestured vaguely. “And in case the material is terrible, I’m not likely to face the same audience again soon.”

“You have new material.” Of course a bard would have new material after a few months out on the road. Geralt almost felt guilty asking. But what Jaskier said at Vengerberg had been gnawing at Geralt: _“Play something,”_ Geralt had said, and Jaskier had replied, _“I can’t,”_ as if confessing he had the pox. And tonight, Jaskier wasn’t downstairs plying his trade. The situation planted in Geralt a deep-seated and unaccountable unease.

“More than I've had in awhile.” Jaskier ruffled a thumb through his stack of parchment.

“I haven't heard any of it.” Seeing Jaskier’s songs, an integral part of himself, there in paper form, encoded in lines and dots and flourishes and therefore completely inaccessible, suddenly gave Geralt an intense desire to know what Jaskier’s music would be like, given voice and breath.

“No one has. Well, that's not true,” Jaskier corrected himself. “Pegasus has heard it all. As has a field full of goats near Aldersberg, and the charming shepherdess who didn't bother to let me know she was there napping in the high grass. She had some critical feedback.”

“You could try some out on me,” Geralt offered. The idea was very appealing. For some reason, he wanted to hear Jaskier sing.

To his surprise, Jaskier laughed in his face. “If I wanted a critical audience, I could go back to the shepherdess.”

“What do I have to be critical about?” Geralt frowned. “I have no kind of musical ability. What should it matter what I think?”

“And yet, you have traditionally been very free with your opinions.” Jaskier waggled the quill at him, splattering a bit of ink on his parchment.

“What does that mean?”

“In our early acquaintance, you did not think much of my music.” Jaskier offered a smile that did not reach his eyes, a fact that Geralt was startled to discover he could recognize. “To be perfectly honest, you were inclined to violence whenever my music came up. It took me quite a while to have both the skill and sense to read your moods and know when a song would be welcome. But in the meantime, there were one or two gut punches, and several dunks in very cold bodies of water.”

“Sounds discouraging.” Geralt tried to remember a time when he’d been irritated enough to throw someone in a lake, let alone for something as trivial as a song. “Were your songs...offensive?”

“Towards you? No. Towards the bounds of good taste and objective truth, you seemed to think so.” Jaskier shook his head. “Well, this time around I decided it would be better if you got to know me without the impediment of being annoyed by constant singing. I have few enough of the virtues I had as a youth, but I have picked up some new ones, such as appreciating the value of silence. I thought I may as well put that to use.”

“Hmm.” Geralt hadn’t considered that he was the reason for the bard’s silence. Yennefer, though she knew well enough which of her activities annoyed Geralt, expected him to bear them as she bore his. No one else, save perhaps his fellow witchers, was a large enough part of his life to merit his even conveying his displeasure with their habits. But Jaskier had known, and remembered, and changed himself for Geralt’s comfort. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that. 

“It’s fine.” Jaskier still had his head lowered, quill poised over the parchment, not writing. “I know my work isn’t to everyone’s taste.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Geralt said. “Considering what my behavior has been in the past, I can't blame you for not being enthusiastic about trying out your music. But if you would like to, there don’t seem to be any convenient bodies of water about in which to dunk you.”

Jaskier cast a baleful eye at the now-cold bath, then back at Geralt.

“No dunking. I promise.”

“Well.” Jaskier put down his quill and shuffled through the stack of parchment, before looking up at Geralt almost shyly. “There is a ballad I’ve been working and reworking. Some of it’s quite solid, but the ending hasn’t come to me yet. Would you--”

“By all means,” Geralt said, bowing in the most courtly manner he could manage while seated.

“Fine.” Jaskier jabbed a finger at him. “Remember that you asked for this! I’ll give you the part I’ve been working on. You’ve been known to come up with a passable rhyme, on rare occasions. You might be useful.” 

Jaskier put his fingers on the lute strings and began to play a slow, melancholy tune that rose and fell like the lapping of a tide. Geralt imagined the song would have tasted of fresh, cold air and the sharp scent of pine, if he’d still been able to perceive it that way. The song flowed back to its beginning, and Jaskier began to sing.

“She lifted her chin as she stepped to the edge,  
And away her doubts flew in a flash.”

His fingers withdrew from the strings, and he frowned. “Mm, no, that’s the problem. Too informal. Moment, foment... Trice!” He resumed his grip on the lute and began the phrase again.

“And away her doubts flew in a trice.

When the tip of her toe met the water of the stream,  
The memories she held turned to ice.”

The tune drifted to a halt, and Jaskier mouthed the line again, twice through, looking up at the ceiling. “Mmm, I can make memories two syllables. Mem’ries.” He scrawled a quick note on his parchment before playing again.

“And when she looked back at her dear farmer lad,  
His eyes filled with tears to the brim

What they’d had was no longer, he knew there and then.  
T’was a stranger, for she didn’t know him.”

A few more phrases rounded out the melody, and then Jaskier’s fingers stilled, drifting off into silence.

“Is this going to be sad?” Geralt asked.

“It’s a _tragic_ ballad,” Jaskier said, raising an eyebrow. “So yes.”

“It’s… interesting.” Not beautiful, exactly. It had a haunting quality Geralt didn’t care to examine too closely.

“Interesting! Oh, you cut me to the quick.” Jaskier threw his arm back over his forehead. “Damned with faint praise.”

“I mean that I wouldn’t mind hearing more,” Geralt said, and Jaskier stopped his dramatics long enough to look up at him with a hopeful expression. “I like that one better than the last. The one about the banshee. Not a very pretty melody.”

“Churl. Your musical taste has always been suspect. That song has a classical...” Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re complaining about the banshee song?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, with a full measure of disgust. He attempted the melody in his raspy baritone, “The witcher he turned, silver sword held high--which is nonsense, banshees don’t require silver--and he struck like a--” 

Then Geralt heard Jaskier’s voice in his mind, clear as the ringing of a bell, the music flowing from him like sunlight. With it came the dawning realization of the hole still left within him, and memories came rushing in from all sides to fill it. 

“Oh,” Geralt breathed. He looked up into blue, blue eyes. “Jaskier. Jaskier!”

_Jaskier trudging along beside Roach, the relentless rhythm of his boots against dirt, and the thud of his heart that rose and fell like his voice in the course of his impassioned complaining about the journey._

“Geralt?”

_Jaskier’s quiet, breathy sounds drifting across the space between them right before he awoke, the first time they shared a bed at an inn._

“Geralt! What’s wrong?”

_Jaskier’s hand shaking as he pushed a needle through Geralt’s skin, face pale as he stared at the wound._

_Jaskier calling Geralt’s name in panic, crawling backwards across the forest floor as a Cocatrice slashed its claws at him._

_Jaskier sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, taking careful notes as Geralt explained the names and functions of each of his potions._

_Jaskier’s wide-eyed terror as he clutched at his swollen throat, looking up at Geralt with blood dripping from the side of his mouth, silent as Geralt had wished him, and Geralt knowing he could not let him die._

_Jaskier scrabbling against Geralt’s hold on his shirt as he tried to throw a punch at a sneering Tretogor city watchman, liquor heavy of his breath. And Jaskier jabbing a finger into Geralt’s chest as he stumbled along beside him and slurred, “No one talks to my witcher like that.”_

_Jaskier’s warm hands trailing gently down Geralt’s chest past the map of scars, trusted not to harm._

_Jaskier planting his hand against Geralt’s chest and looking up into his inhuman face, black-eyed and battle crazed, brushing a strand of hair back from his face and saying, “Hush. You’re alright.”_

_Jaskier screaming out his release, clutching his hands in Geralt’s hair._

_Jaskier’s face closing and his shoulders hunching as he turned to walk down the mountain alone._

_Jaskier sitting in front of the fire in the Great Hall at Kaer Morhen, clutching onto Eskel’s arm to keep from falling down as he wheezed with laughter at something Lambert said._

_Jaskier holding up an antique bestiary smuggled out of the Oxenfurt library and saying, “Ooo hoo hoo are we going to have some fun.”_

_Jaskier’s shocked stillness watching the dagger he’d thrown lodge in the throat of a charging bandit._

_Jaskier’s skin pressed to his inside the blankets, shivering cold from the winter wind, but quickly warming as he snuggled closer._

_Jaskier’s face swimming in Geralt’s vision, chanting, “Don’t you die, don’t you die, don’t you fucking die you horrible, insufferable ass!”_

_Jaskier spinning the tale of the dragon hunt for a class of first-year Oxenfurt students who kept turning around to stare at Geralt in blind hero worship._

_Jaskier trailing him and Yen through the empty manor in Vengerberg, stopping to put his hand against the cold stones and say, “We could make this place a home, if you liked it.”_

_Jaskier tracking down the baker from Brugge who’d retired years ago to beg her for a batch of the apricot pastries Geralt remembered from a visit decades ago: the warm, flaky crust and the tart filling, Jaskier grinning at him like he’d won first prize in a bardic competition as Geralt took the first bite._

_Jaskier brushing out Yennefer’s silken hair as she talked Geralt through the elaborate fastenings on his court dress. Him saying, “No, give him the gold neck cloth, Yen. It’ll bring out his eyes.”_

_Jaskier snuggling down between Geralt and Eskel, heaped with blankets and furs as he gave ludicrous names to the stars above Kaer Morhen._

_Jaskier grabbing Geralt’s wrist whenever someone mentioned Blaviken, and whispering, “I forgive you,” just loud enough for him to hear, every single time._

_Jaskier hitching Geralt’s leg further over his shoulder as he thrust into him, face flushed, mouth open, plunging them both towards climax._

“Jaskier.” Geralt reached for him, caught his hands. He couldn’t get enough air, and the room seemed to be tilting alarmingly. “Jaskier. It’s you.”

“It’s been me. Sit down.” Jaskier pressed him back down into a chair--when had he stood?-- put a full tankard in his hand, and knelt in front of him. “Are you alright? What’s happening?”

Geralt gulped from the tankard, and his heartbeat began to slow. The room had ceased its spinning. He looked up at Jaskier, at that face he’d seen change from a callow youth to an admirable man, a beloved partner. “I _remember._ ”

“Geralt.” Jaskier stared at him, mouth open, and brushed his fingers down Geralt’s cheek. “No magical… side effects?”

“No. No, I’m fine.” Geralt reached for him. “Jaskier. I’m so sorry I--”

“Nooo, there’ll be none of that. You haven’t done anything to apologize for.” Jaskier squeezed his hand. “You sure you’re alright? Drink something.” 

As Geralt drank, Jaskier looked up at him. And as Jaskier looked, his expression closed down from its previous elation. Geralt heard Jaskier’s heart begin to thump faster and faster, and his breath coming short. 

“Must be a bit of a shock to the system.” Jaskier said, fidgeting with the sleeve of his doublet. “Do you want a… something stronger? Alcohol, I can get you some proper alcohol.” He pushed to his feet and turned towards the door.

“No.” Geralt stood, and caught him by the arm. “Stay.”

“Ah, all right.” Jaskier stood still, glancing at him sidelong, then looking away. “Well, that’s… You know me, now. All right.”

“Jaskier, what?” Geralt slid his hand down Jaskier’s arm and let go. Jaskier smelled of fear. Fear of him? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. This is what we’ve been waiting for, hoping for. Should have known Yen’s spell would work eventually.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt gave him a stern look. “I can smell that you’re afraid.”

“Ahhh.” Jaskier turned around and finally looked at him. “All this time I wanted you to see me, and now it’s you, and you do. It’s only that… Well, I didn’t realize before what that would mean.”

“You’re afraid of me now?” Geralt asked, heart sinking.

“You?” Jaskier barked out a laugh. “No. I’m afraid of what you’ll say. It didn’t matter as much if you hated me before, because you didn’t really know me. But if you hate me--and the gods know you have all the reason in the world to hate me--that means even after everything I’ve…. It’s all… That means I really…” Jaskier trailed off, swallowed hard, and fixed his eyes on the floor. 

Geralt caught hold of Jaskier’s hand and waited for Jaskier to look at him. “I forgive you.”

Jaskier sighed heavily. “That’s now how this works.”

“It is, and you can’t tell me I’m not remembering it correctly.” Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hand gently, willing that fear smell to go away. “I told you. You could never do anything I wouldn’t forgive you for. I meant it.”

“You sap.” Jaskier stared at him, sputtering, but his heartbeat was easing, his breath no longer coming in shallow bursts. “You and your romantical notions.” He waved a finger at Geralt. “You’re stepping on my territory as a bard. I’m going to lodge a complaint with--”

Geralt cut off further argument by surging forward to take Jaskier in his arms and kiss him. Feeling Jaskier’s body against his, he couldn’t stop trying to pull him closer. Geralt’s body had missed Jaskier without his conscious mind knowing what was missing. Not simply the smell of Jaskier, the feel of him solid in Geralt’s arms, but the act of holding him and knowing Jaskier was his. “How could I have forgotten this?”

“There was quite strong magic involved, as I understand it. You don’t need to… You’re not... I’m different. You’re different, too.” Jaskier huffed, apparently impatient with himself. “I told you before, you don’t have to be beholden to what you wanted then.”

Geralt’s first impulse was to withdraw, and take the hint as Jaskier’s gentle rejection. But with his memories restored, he could better read Jaskier’s expression. “That’s not what you want.”

“That’s not my point,” Jaskier sighed.

“Am I permitted to at least give this a try and see how I like it?” 

“What’s ‘this?’” Jaskier asked.

“All of this.” Geralt slid his hands down Jaskier’s side to squeeze his thigh. 

“Yes.” Jaskier’s eyes had gone a bit glassy. “Yes, I think that could--yes.”

Geralt slowly moved a hand up to cradle Jaskier’s face and pull him in for another kiss. Jaskeir didn’t resist. In fact, he went pliant under Geralt’s touch, leaning forward to rest his weight against Geralt.

“Fuck, I missed this.” It was as if Geralt’s body had forgotten thirst and now, suddenly remembering the need, craved water all the more fiercely to make up for the time he hadn’t known he lacked it. 

Jaskier clutched at him, pressing back with equal enthusiasm, all his fear smell faded away as if it had never been, replaced by the much more pungent scent of rising lust. 

“Can I take you to bed?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” Jaskier gasped. “Please.”

Geralt managed to shed his clothes and divest Jaskier of his in the course of the journey to the bed. Jaskier’s breeches and boots were the last to go, ending in a tangled heap with a sprinkling of other garments all around them. All of Jaskier’s movements, his sounds, his smells, were familiar and informative in a way they hadn’t been yesterday. So when Geralt tumbled them onto the bed, and Jaskier landed on all fours above him, Geralt recognized the studden tension that held Jaskier back. 

“Jaskier?”

“I.. Ah… I don’t know where to put my hands,” Jaskier said.

“Yes, you do.” Geralt felt certain of that. “I can now cite at least a dozen memories of you using your hands quite skillfully.” Those memories were stoking his libido quite effectively, but he could be patient.

“Oh, fu….” Jaskier groaned. “No, I--Geralt. It’s a bit…” He waved a hand helplessly. “It reminds me...”

“Hm.” In that case, it was fortunate that Geralt now felt confident of what he wanted. Geralt lifted Jaskier’s hand and settled it on his hip. The other he pulled to his mouth. He licked a wet stripe across the palm and released it, raising an eyebrow. 

Jaskier’s face brightened into a smile as he wrapped his hand around Geralt’s hardening cock. And oh, he certainly had no difficulty remembering how Geralt liked to be touched. He began slow and teasingly, fingers loose around the shaft and palm barely making contact. 

“You’ll have to….” Jaskier grimaced, shook his head. “You can tell me if you want more. I’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

“More,” Geralt said immediately, to test this new power.

Jaskier’s grip tightened, and Geralt’s head tipped back as he reveled in the friction.

“Harder,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier squeezed him firmly, just the right amount of pressure, twisting his hand around the crown before stroking downwards. 

“Slower.”

Jaskier slowed, not taking his eyes from Geralt, working his hand so skillfully Geralt found himself fully hard and well on his way to climax. 

“Anything I ask for, you said?” Geralt asked.

“Anything,” Jasker breathed.

“What about your mouth?”

Jaskier swallowed, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “Anything.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Jaskier fairly dove onto Geralt’s cock, messily slurping down the head while his hand continued stroking. He could be like that in bed, Geralt remembered, eager, almost frantic to please, when he felt he owed something.

However, Geralt had no intention of lying back and letting Jaskier pleasure him as if he had something to make up for. For one thing, he needed to get his hands on Jaskier sooner rather than later. “Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier asked, but didn’t look up from his work.

“I want to touch you, too.”

Jaskier looked up at him, his mouth stretched wide around Geralt’s cock, then slowly pulled off. “Anything.”

“What do you want?” Geralt asked.

“Geralt.” Jaskier reached up to brush a hand lightly over Geralt’s chest. “I want to give you every pleasure there is. Tell me how.”

“Fuck me.”

Jaskier made a wordless noise of protest, and his eyes narrowed in concern.

“I quite enjoy having you inside me,” Geralt said. That he knew for certain. “I remember enjoying it.” 

“But you remember not enjoying it,” Jaskier pointed out. “With me. Quite recently.”

“Yes. That’s not new.” Geralt sliced a hand to the side, dismissive. “I don’t intend to deny myself because of that. Do you think that was the most unpleasant fuck I endured in that place? If I ruled out everything they did to me, there’d be very little left.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s eyes widened, his excellent imagination likely supplying horrors that were far in excess of the reality. 

Wrong tactic. Try something else. “I didn’t want what happened then. I want you now. I want new memories with you.”

Jaskier swallowed. “I said I’d give you anything.” He reached for Geralt again, but Geralt caught his hands and held them.

“Do you remember the time in Vizima when you were so impatient you gave the stableboy a handful of orens to piss off so you could fuck me right there against the wall of the stable?”

“Hmph.” Jaskier’s eyes darkened as he nodded.

“What about the time you had to rescue me from those idiot villagers who thought they could summon a fertility spirit?” Geralt asked.

“You were so precious in that daisy crown.” When Jaskier smiled, Geralt saw the wrinkles bunch at the corner of his eyes, deeper than they used to be. “And it would have been a shame for all that ceremonial wine to go to waste.”

Geralt dragged Jaskier closer, pressing them together. “The winter the passes didn’t clear for an extra month, and you and Yen were competing to check off rooms in Kaer Morhen.”

“Lambert never really forgave me for convincing you to fuck in his bed,” Jaskier chuckled.

“He might have if you had bothered to change the sheets.” Geralt traced his hands down Jaskier’s sides, reveling in the feel of his body between Geralt’s hands, solid and familiar. The memories were bubbling up faster, a cornucopia of enjoyable encounters. “What about the betrothal of Duke Taren’s youngest son?”

“Entirely your fault.” Jaskier rocked against Geralt as his cock began to swell. “You pounced on me before I’d finished my performance.”

“No one noticed the last dancing set was a bit subdued.”

“Because my throat was too raw to sing. The Duke noticed, believe me. You beast.” Jaskier surged forward to press his mouth to Geralt’s, then made a curious noise and drew back. “The cave we were stuck in when the tide came in--where was that, in Povis? Pitch dark, I couldn’t see a thing.”

“And we discovered you could fuck me just fine in the dark, because you had all of me memorized.” Geralt dug his fingers into Jaskier’s ass, to pull Jaskier tighter against him. “When those bandits laid siege to Nazrog. On the southern ramparts.”

“Oh, that,” Jaskier groaned. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to stay completely silent while I’m inside you and you’re moving and you have that look on your face?”

“I have all of those memories back, and more.” Geralt kissed him again, losing himself in Jaskier’s smell and taste until Jaskier had to break away for air. “You are so much more to me than one night, no matter how painful.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“I’ve lived a long time, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. He settled a hand on Jaskier’s cheek. “I’d be disappointed if you never wanted to do that particular thing again. It doesn’t need to be now. There’s plenty else I want from you. But I want to try, when you’re ready.”

“I want to. Freya’s fiery _cunt_ do I want to. It’s not you I’m unsure of.” Jaskier looked away. “If I… I don’t have any of Yen’s practical remedy handy. What if…”

It took Geralt a moment to put together Jaskier’s point, and he blinked. Jaskier had always been confident of his performance, musical or otherwise. But Geralt wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by the events at Lord Iwen’s. He held Jaskier close, shoving down the rage he felt at the men who’d made it necessary for Jaskier to go through that. This was neither the time nor the place. He wouldn’t bring those bastards into this bed. Instead, he said, “If we needed you hard to have a good time, we wouldn’t have stayed awake all night on that ship out of An Skellig.”

“Oh, fuck. I’d forgotten--gah.” Jaskier shuddered against him, pushing his cock against Geralt’s belly. He certainly wasn’t having any difficulties at the moment.

“We can cross that bridge if and when we arrive.” Geralt leaned in for another kiss, and said softly, “There’s nothing wrong with your fingers, is there, bard?”

“Ngggg. No. Alright, yes.” Jaskier sat up, grinning at him. “You’re dangerous with all these memories at your disposal.”

“You can’t lead me astray anymore.” Geralt smiled back at him. “I know my side of these stories.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s face fell. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t lie about--”

“I know. That’s not what I meant,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “But you can’t argue I don’t know my own mind about what I want, now can you?”

“No,” Jaskier sighed. “I suppose I can’t.”

Geralt settled himself on his side while Jaskier fetched the oil. He felt lust-drunk enough to take Jaskier with no preparation, but he’d wait if he had to. Jaskier was certainly worth waiting for. Geralt propped up a knee to open himself for Jaskier.

“Oh, that’s a lovely sight,” Jaskier said as he settled in behind Geralt. “Ready for me?”

Geralt nodded, and let out a slow breath as Jaskier rubbed his fingers around the rim of his hole, firm, but not insistent. Geralt fought the urge to shove back against the touch. He would have, years ago, knowing Jaskier would give him all he wanted if he only made it clear what that was. But, even more than his own pleasure, Geralt wanted Jaskier to enjoy this, and know Geralt was enjoying it, too. There would be time to be fast and demanding and rough, because they had the future, now. Geralt could have Jaskier every day, as long as he could convince him to stay. 

For this, his first time back home with Jaskier, with the knowledge of all their past folded in around them, Geralt wanted Jaskier to have his way. He’d had to wait for this all the while Geralt hadn’t known what he was missing. He deserved more than just following Geralt’s every whim, afraid to put a step wrong. And obedience had never been in Jaskier’s nature, in any case. Geralt would just need to help Jaskier stop worrying about the past. And as always, the best way to turn off Jaskier’s brain was to get him to open his mouth. 

“Did you miss this?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” Jaskier hissed, circling his fingers around Geralt’s entrance for emphasis.

“What did you miss?” Geralt prompted.

“The feel of you.” Jaskier pushed his fingers in, twisting as he went. “You’re so hot, practically burning inside. And always so tight. The feeling of being inside you, having that heat around my cock…” Jaskier fucked Geralt with his fingers, smooth and slow.

Geralt curled a hand around his own cock, still wet from Jaskier’s mouth, and gave it a friendly squeeze.

As he’d hoped, once Jaskier had gotten started, the words flowed easily. “Gods, that’s a sight. You are so incredibly perfect. Like a carved statue in a temple. Your prick is…” Jaskier made a strangled noise and dropped his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder. “Next time, I want it inside me.”

Geralt hummed his assent. So Jaskier was already thinking about next time as well. How fortunate their thoughts ran upon such similar lines. “I do enjoy watching you ride me,” Geralt said, to pour more fuel on the fire. “When you lose yourself so much you can’t lift yourself anymore, and I have to bounce you on my cock.”

“Ah,” Jaskier wheezed. “Careful, or you won’t get what you want out of me tonight.” His fingers slid easily in and out now, though he stopped to add extra oil before pushing in a third.

“I’m ready,” Geralt said. He could be patient, but there were limits. “I know you can feel how ready I am.”

“Then I won’t keep you waiting.” Jaskier pressed a kiss to his neck and withdrew his fingers. “On your back.”

Jaskier knelt between Geralt’s legs, rubbing his oil-slicked fingers over his rampant cock. He stared down at Geralt laid out beneath him with his lips parted. He let out a shaky breath, and his hand tightened on his cock as his expression slid into a frown.

There would be none of that. Geralt caught Jaskier and pulled him down on top, then cradled Jaskier’s head to guide him into a kiss. “Thank you for finding me.”

“I would have gone anywhere, done anything, to bring you home,” Jaskier whispered.

“It will truly feel like home when you’re inside me.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier pressed another passionate kiss to Geralt’s lips, then drew back to position himself. He took Geralt’s ankle to direct a leg over his shoulder, then met Geralt’s eyes and didn’t look away. He guided his cock inside. There was no teasing or testing. Jaskier gave Geralt all of him, smoothly and expertly burying his cock in Geralt until his balls rested against Geralt’s ass.

“How does it feel?” Geralt asked. “Do you--”

“Please do not say words,” Jaskier gritted out. “I’m trying not to come.”

“Mm.” Geralt settled a hand around his cock and stroked it leisurely, his eyes fixed on Jaskier. “I can keep myself entertained.”

After a few shaky breaths, Jaskier shook his head. “I’d forgotten how impossible you are when you need a good fucking.”

Geralt raised his chin. “Shut me up, then.”

Jaskier moved, fucking Geralt with fast, shallow strokes that stimulated him just the right way, then, when Geralt’s breath went short and irregular, slowing down for deeper thrusts.

“You’re so beautiful like this. Your eyes, I’ve missed how they--fuck, I’ve missed everything about you.” He rolled his hips into Geralt with satisfying force, pushing him into the bed. “Geralt. I want to-- Geralt!”

“I’m here.” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hand where it was braced against his thigh. “I’m here. I’m yours.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier clutched at Geralt’s cock, stroking it along with him at that just-right pace and pressure until Geralt’s hips bucked up frantically to meet Jaskier’s thrusts. Geralt felt light and loose, his whole body floating as if on ocean waves as Jaskier rocked into him. “I can’t wait to see you come for me, love.” 

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat as pleasure swept through him, filling up every part of his body and flowing out of him. The floating him carried him along as Jaskier thrust into him again, sending aftershocks rolling through Geralt’s body. Then Jaskier shouted, tightening his hand on Geralt’s as he leaned forward, reaching his own release and spilling into Geralt.

Jaskier gently let down Geralt’s leg with trembling hands and pitched forward, heedless of the stripes of issue coating Geralt’s belly.

“That was over faster than I meant it to be,” Jaskier muttered against Geralt’s neck.

“I have no complaints.” Geralt shifted to settle Jaskier more comfortably against him. “And I seem to recall that I’m quite accomplished at helping you find the energy for another round.”

“I’m not nineteen any more!” Jaskier swatted at Geralt’s shoulder, but in his post-climax daze, only managed to smack the pillow.

“No.” Geralt looked down at Jaskier, the smattering of grey hairs mixed in with the brown, the laugh lines written across his face, his scent, sleepy and contented. “This version of you is the one I want.” 

Jaskier kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. In the end, Geralt didn’t need to try very hard at all to get Jaskier ready for another round.  
\--

The next night, when Jaskier sang at the inn, he played the new material right along with the old. What did it matter if the crowd didn’t like him, when he had Geralt back? Though Jaskier had to concede that the ditty about the impotent minstrel needed a little something more in the chorus, most of the songs served very well.

There hadn’t been a dry eye in the house after he finished premiering “The Winter Maiden and the Faithless Farmboy.” When Jaskier went to turn over some of his newly acquired coin for another night in the room, the landlord waved him away with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’ll earn much more in custom than the price of a room after that number, bard,” the man said. “Every man here needs a stiff drink. Go on, and I’ll send the lad up with some vittles.”

They stayed in that inn for the rest of the week, barely stirring from their room but to play in the evening (Jaskier) or order yet another bath (Geralt), feasting on each other and re-learning every way to bring one another pleasure.

After that they headed south towards the Pontar, though on the first day, out of necessity, they led the horses and travelled on foot. Jaskier sang at one village harvest festival after another. Changing the rhyme scheme of the impotent minstrel song made something of a difference, but it still hadn’t quite clicked. The money wasn’t princely, but it was enough to keep them in ale and pies and allowed them to pick up a few trinkets for Yen without dipping into their reserves.

On the morning of the festival in Piana, a farmer approached Geralt about a pack of devourers who’d set up shop on his farm near Bialy Most and had already defeated a troop of the king’s soldiers. It was a bit out of their way, but the poor man was so distraught that Jaskier encouraged Geralt to go. They made plans to meet in Murivel the next afternoon, when they’d both discharged their professional duties.

Jaskier played longer than usual at the Piana festival, though it took a few rounds of ale to settle his nerves, and his banter with the crowd was perhaps not so witty as he would have liked. He was up before dawn the next day to start out for Murivel, though of course there was no particular hurry. If Geralt had spent the night hunting down devourers, he’d likely sleep through most of the day. 

The innkeeper in Murivel hadn’t seen Geralt. No one setting up for the festival had seen Geralt. The apothecary knew about the farm that had been suffering from devourer attacks, but had not seen Geralt. With a growing pit of dread in his belly, Jaskier demanded directions to the farm and rode Pegasus as hard as he dared. 

When Pegasus, with dragging feet, carried Jaskier around a bend in the road and past the edge of the woods, the farm came into view. Jaskier immediately spotted Roach in a paddock outside the barn, stripped of her tack and grazing contentedly. The sight did not reassure him. 

“Geralt?” he called, but there was no answer. He pushed Pegasus into a weary trot towards the farmhouse. As soon as they reached the farmyard, Jaskier leapt off his back and tossed the reins over a fence before pounding on the door.

A ruddy-faced woman in a kerchief opened the door, glaring. Before she could question him, Jaskier demanded, “Where is Geralt?”

“Who?” she asked, blinking.

Jaskier’s heart squeezed in his chest, and he thought he might vomit. “Geralt of Rivia.” His voice sounded as if it were very far away. “The witcher.”

“Oh, the witcher!” she said, face brightening. “Yes, of course. He’s out with my husband, tending to the bodies, poor souls.”

“Where?”

“Out towards the back fields.” She gestured behind the house. “Would you like to wait for him? I imagine they’ll--”

“Thank you, mistress.” Jaskier strode off into the fields in the direction she’d given as fast as his feet would carry him. Before long, he saw a column of smoke rising in the distance, and began to run. He burst out of a row of wheat into a field that had already been reaped. A bonfire burned in a circle of bare dirt, smelling of burning flesh. 

Beside it, smeared with ash and streaked with blood, stood Geralt.

Jaskier ran to him, and when Geralt turned, flung himself into Geralt’s arm. Jaskier clung to him wordlessly, gasping for air and breathing in the smell of leather, monster blood, and sweaty witcher. 

Geralt curled a hand around the back of his neck. “What’s happened?”

“Don’t do that.” Jaskier tightened his grip on Geralt’s shirt and buried his face in Geralt’s tangled hair. “Don’t you do that again.”

Geralt pulled Jaskier in tight. “I sent the farmer’s youngest to town with a message. Did he not--”

“I must have passed him on the road.” Jaskier had been in a blind panic, but he seemed to remember passing a few travellers on his way here. He should’ve known, should have thought to check instead of rushing off headlong, like a man who hadn’t travelled with a witcher for the better part of two decades. Jaskier stepped back and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Geralt entirely, and kept a hand on his shoulder.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

“This ought to help things along.” The farmer came trudging out of the woods with an armful of brush, which he threw onto the blaze. “Done with your caterwauling then, master troubadour?”

“Yes, just thought I’d stop by and see how Geralt here was getting on.” Jaskier slapped on a shaky smile and sketched a bow. It wasn’t his finest performance. He was still shaking, though from his mad dash or the residual terror, he could not have said.

“Well, I hope you’ll write another song or two about this one.” The farmer beamed at Geralt. “Saved my family, he did, and no mistake. Fiends would have killed us quicker than these soldiers here, poor souls. A damn fine witcher.”

“That he is, sir.” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulder once more and let his hand drop.

“I have to go,” Geralt said, looking at the farmer. “Remember, keep the fire burning until sunset. And block off that cave so nothing else makes a nest there.”

“Aye, we’ll do that.” He shook Geralt’s hand emphatically. “Bless you, sir.”

Geralt led the way back to the house, holding Jaskier by the hand. He collected the horses, frowning at Pegasus’s raspy breathing, and found them a spot to camp just beyond the bounds of the farm. Then he let Jaskier touch him and touch him until they fell asleep tangled in each other.

They stayed together after that, even if it meant Jaskier cutting a performance short or Geralt sending a merchant off with instructions on how to cure ghost cough instead of going himself to investigate. Jaskier proved indispensable on a contract when he uncovered an extra vial of spectre oil in his bag, and Geralt intimidated one of Jaskier’s bardic rivals right out of town after he’d threatened to smash Jaskier’s lute. They settled into the kind of routine they’d had long ago, though admittedly one that kept them confined to one another’s orbits.

That dreadful, leaden panic at finding Geralt missing didn’t go away, precisely, but Jaskier learned to hold it in check long enough to think through reasonable explanations as to where Geralt had gone: to check on the horses, or fetch water from the town well, or buy them some mulled wine. And if Geralt seemed more disposed now to mention where he was off to before disappearing, Jaskier didn’t complain. 

They sat around their cheerily crackling fire as the last of the season’s harvest festivals wound down in the distance. Geralt had obtained a beautifully fragrant mead to toast Jaskier’s success in finally making a hit of the impotent minstrel song. He’d only need to change “minstrel” to “taxman,” and the crowds had howled for more. Reworking the rhyme scheme had been worth the effort.

As they sat staring into the fire and sipping their mead, Jaskier said, “Thank you for staying. I didn’t know you could tolerate this many festivals in succession.”

“Well, I’m not the man I was,” Geralt said, but he was smiling into his cup, so likely it wasn’t meant as morosely as it sounded.

“Mm.” Jaskier regarded him, nodding over his own drink. “I quite like this version of you.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh, and shook his head. “The me without the two of you…” he said, and now the smile had drifted away. “It was lonely. I missed you so much without knowing it. I’m sorry I couldn’t see that at first.”

“Don’t be,” Jaskier said immediately. “It wasn’t your fault.” The devastation he’d felt at Geralt’s initial disinterest in him felt like a faded bruise, unimportant in the grander scheme of so much that had been healed. “And in any case, we have Yennefer to thank for convincing you to come after me at all.”

“If you thank her directly,” Geralt warned, “she’ll hiss and spit and deny having done anything.”

“Well, we’ll just have to figure out how to make it up to her somehow.”

“I rely on your bardic ingenuity for that,” Geralt said, and chuckled at Jaskier’s expression.

They drained the rest of their cups, and lay down together to end this harvest festival as they had all the rest. 

The next morning, there was frost on the ground. Jaskier shivered as he tacked up Pegasus, and by silent mutual agreement, they forewent breakfast in order to get on the road the sooner. A chill wind swept down the valley, rustling the fur on Jaskier’s cloak. He threw up his hood, hunkered down closer to his horse, and indulged in just a bit of complaining. “I’m too delicate a flower to be out in this weather.”

“We should head out, then.” Geralt swung up onto Roach. “I promised I’d be back before the first snow.”

“You promised…?” Jaskier asked, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. He’d been assuming much. Perhaps Geralt meant to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with his brothers. Or maybe Yen had wanted Geralt to herself for a few months, which would be only fair. 

“You, fool,” Geralt said fondly, interrupting his burgeoning panic. “I promised _you._ ”

“Ah.” Jaskier blew out a breath, laughing at himself. “So you did. Glad to see you’re a man of your word, even if you’re a little late.” He clambered onto Pegasus and gathered up the reins. “To Vengerberg, then. I wouldn’t say no to a soak in the baths. And a warm stable for the horses. Won’t you like that, Roachie? Oh, and cook’s minced pie.”

“Yes.” Geralt looked at Jaskier, eyes golden and shining in the early morning light. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

They turned their horses for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you all who've stuck with me on this much-longer-than-planned journey! You're pretty great, Witcher fandom. Your encouragement has made this happen. If you enjoyed this fic, feel free to leave a comment and share your thoughts! 
> 
> My next large-ish project is for [Witcher Big Bang](https://witcherbigbang.tumblr.com/), which posts in September, but between now and then, definitely expect to see some one-shots, as the plot bunnies who have waited patiently while I worked on this are now starting to circle like sharks. As always, you're welcome to find me [on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill).


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